Behind the sarcasm
by partyyyyyy
Summary: Tony is an extremely underrated and overlooked character, in my opinion. A little conflict between the Avengers and Peter trying to make them see their actions. Intended angst like always, pretty sure I failed.
1. Chapter 1

**2nd avengers work of the week. This is an extremely crappy piece. Let's see if you can catch the intended message to be conveyed. Please review, please do. So I can improve my writing and grammar. My English is very bad, like shit level bad, so any suggestions are more than welcome. And here goes...**

Why do I constantly feel like I'm thrust back into primary school ages? Ya know, with all the backstabbing and betraying and shit like that within the avengers, it almost seems comical.

The "Hey, don't play with him. He's a loser!" is getting old.

The whole mess about weapon manufacturing, manipulated and betrayed by people who I trust dearly, Loki, Ultron, and now Civil war.

Dr Banner flew off to God knows where, Steve and his teammates, aka the "I Hate Stark team" went completely off radar. Honestly, I didn't know that many people, that many heroes hated me. Perhaps I am unfit to be a hero after all. Not like I ever thought of myself as one.

Why did I ever trust anyone? Ever?

God, I miss Jarvis.

In light of the new threat Thanos, the Avengers have re-assembled in the tower, along with some newbies. Still, it feels as though there were 2 teams: me, against everyone else.

I know, I know. My personality isn't exactly charming. People say a lot about me: rude, insensitive, inconsiderate, snarky are just some of them out of the bunch. If you are looking for adjectives that describe me, go to a desert and count the vast amounts of sand. That might give you a better idea of how widely despised my character is.

The tension within the room is palpable. Glares of disgust, revulsion, loathe and contempt were evident everytime I pass by the team. Snide remarks and scornful comments were spat my way.

Which is why, I seek refuge in my workshop as much as I can, considering drowning my sorrows in alcohol and sex were no longer effective.

I don't blame them. Frankly, I hate myself as much as they do.

Pathetic, I know. Stark men are made of iron and they never show weakness. This lesson has been ingrained in my mind ever since I was a little child.

It is ironic really, how people selectively remember the good you have done, but possess a complete collection of the myriad of different versions of the single time you have screwed up or failed. Your incompetence in even a microscopic incident will be seared into everybody's minds perpetually, the rest of the good long forgotten.

It is onerous, living in this society in which being perfect is expected, no exceptions made.

Show your weakness, automatically you are undeserving.

Why?

Because you are a puny being and a pathetic excuse for life. Besides, nobody truly cares about you.

I cannot seem to remember the last time I laid down properly on my bed. The thought of sleep seemed incredibly terrifying ever since Afghanistan. I feel my eyelids drooping and my head feeling incredibly heavy.

"No…" I mumbled, efforts in trying to remain awake completely in vain.

"Friday, initiate lockdown protocol of the workshop…"

Then, the blackness welcomed me in its embrace.

Torture. My head being dunked and plunged into the unforgiving murky waters over and over and over again. Air seemed like a luxury item. Maniacs with a malicious glint in their eyes were laughing malevolently.

Pain. Being operated on to install the arc reactor. My lungs desperately yearning for oxygen. My heart.

The realization dawning on me - countless innocent civilians I have killed using my destructive weapons.

Yinsen.

YINSEN. NO. YINSEN.

Stupid and selfish Stark. A genius like you shouldn't have made a blunder like this. Why didn't you make Yinsen a shield? Or a weapon to protect himself?

You don't deserve to die. Death will be a delight, too kind for scums like you. Struggle, feeling the agony of surviving everyday. That seemed too light of a punishment, but it will have to make do.

I woke to a loud scream. It took me a moment to realise it was me who was screaming.

My breathing was laboured and my chest ached. Occasionally, I let out squeaks in bold attempt to take in air greedily.

"Mr. Stark! Hey, Mr. Stark. It's alright okay, er, whatever you are thinking of, just stop and breathe okay?"

Right. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

My eyes were closed. The haunted face Yinsen wore when death claimed his life was projected behind shut lids.

I opened my eyes, and still I saw Yinsen. Distantly, I felt my knees impacting the cement on the ground. My hands blindly reached out in futile attempt to shake Yinsen awake. Please, don't let him die. He didn't deserve it.

I made a promise, and I couldn't keep it.

There was blood, a lot of blood. I felt blood entering my lungs and oh God, I cannot breathe. Why can't I breathe?

"Tony!"

Harshly, I was shoved back into reality. My vision cleared up gradually.

There crouched a figure, holding up a glass of water. No. Not water. No water. I don't want water. I'll make it, I'll make the weapon just please, no more water-

"Okay! Calm down, please, Mr. Stark."

Is that Peter? What is he doing here? Didn't I initiate lockdown protocol before sleep dragged me under?

"Pe-Peter?"  
"Yeah, hey Mr Stark. Welcome back. How're you feeling? Actually, scrap that question. Erm, uh-"  
"Why are we on the floor?" I rasped. I presume my throat was raw from the screaming.

"You, uh, fell off the stool, and, uh, hurt your knees. Are they okay?" Peter enquired, voice sincere and genuine. I can't remember the last time anybody spoke to me like that.

I grabbed onto the corner of the nearest table in endeavor to pull myself up. Instead, a bunch of paper designs scattered onto the ground, landing in different places on the floor, making the unorganized lab even more chaotic.

Dammit, why can't I do a single thing correctly?

I tried again, finally succeeding in the fundamental task.

"Thanks, Pete, I appreciate your help, but what are you doing here? How did you even get in? Friday?"

"Sir, I let Peter in. Your heart rate was spiking and it was clear that you were in distress. I-"

"I appreciate the sentiment Friday, but next time do not do anything like this without my instructions. This is irrational."

"I apologise sir."

"Friday meant well, Mr Stark."

"What are you still doing here?" I asked, trying to keep the annoyance from seeping into my voice. I just want to be alone; I just want some space. Is even that something I cannot have?

"Mr. Stark. I was going to talk to you about adding water abilities to the suit-"

"No water, no water, please. Just, not water."

Peter was startled. Apprehensively, he reached out and put his palm on my hand as a gesture of comfort.

"Mr Stark… I know you have been through some difficult times… do you want to talk about it…? I promise, I won't tell anyone."

Confiding it in a child? Stark, you really are growing more pitiful, aren't you?

"No, it's okay Peter. I can deal with it. Leave the suit here and I'll update you with the upgrades okay?" I tried, voice shaky and weak.

Peter nodded and dropped the suit down, though a frown was evident on his features. He turned around and strode to the door, eyes darting subtly to the few prescription bottles on the messy workbench.

Xanax, Prozac, Haldol, Restoril.

Three of them were full. One of them were empty.

As much as he respected his mentor's privacy, he knew he had to take matters into his own hands.

Reluctantly, he slid open the doors and stepped out of the messy workshop.

Taking out his phone, he fired a quick text to the Avengers(minus Tony). He knows that they have been ignoring or taunting Tony in their own way. He could care less, but he knew they had to fix this problem.

And that these ignoramuses couldn't see through that facade of his mentor's.

Peter's POV

Anti anxiety medication. Antidepressants. Medication for PTSD. Medication to induce sleep. The one for sleeping was empty.

Why was it empty?

This made no sense.

"Hey, kid. 'Sup?"

I put on a stoic face. Firstly, I am not a kid. Secondly, they need to know the severity of their actions.

"Woah, what's with the face? Bad day at school?"

I waited for everybody to file in the room.

"Hey, Pete, you gonna talk? Need us to help you with the bullies at school?"

I turned around with a scowl on my face.

Cap, Thor, Dr Banner, Clint, Natasha, Scott, Sam, Wanda. All here.

Let's begin.

Here goes… nothing.

"Tell me, how has Mr. Stark been doing?"

Immediately, the jovial chipper died down in the room, replaced with tense repugnance and disdain.

"Who cares about that arrogant, narcissistic bas- ass anyway?"

I sighed heavily.

Luckily, I managed to enlist Friday's help, making her promise not to tell Mr Stark. To my surprise, she readily agreed. I guess she was as concerned about Mr Stark as I am.

"Friday, show them the pills first, will ya?"

A hologram of the 4 orange bottles appeared immediately.

"In case you people don't know, they are medications to cope with anxiety, depression, PTSD and sleeping. As you might have noticed, one of them is empty. Do any of you know why?"

Looks of nonchalance swept across the room. Did they not care about their teammate? What kind of sick team is this?

"Friday? I presume that you might have the answer."

"Yes, Mr Parker. Here is the footage."

If AIs could sound spiteful, Friday sure did.

The footage showed Mr Stark throwing his pills down the drain.

"Yes, Peter. We know Stark resents sleep. Nothing new here. Now, stop meddling in adults' business will you?" Cap's snide comment left me speechless momentarily. And to think I once looked up to him. Disgusting.

"Friday, show us the reason he dumped his sleeping pills." Glaring pointedly at the Captain, I addressed the AI.

Another hologram appeared, this time showing a few clips simultaneously, all illustrating Mr Stark, screaming and waking from his nightmare, some further inducing a panic attack.

"And when were these taken, Friday?"

"This month, Mr Parker. The video on the lower left hand corner was taken 15 minutes ago."

"When was the last time Mr Stark sleeped before said footage, Friday?"  
"Sir had been running on coffee for 80 hours and 13 minutes. His distress levels have been increasing dangerously ever since the Avengers have moved back for a temporary stay 2 weeks ago." The normally courteous AI informed, with a hint of abhorrence in her voice.

I stared at my audience. Thor had a look of repentance on his face, as did Dr Banner. Clint and Natasha appeared emotionless, as they always did. Wanda looked indifferent, the Captain and Scott seemed a little embarrassed.

"Do you mind telling me, what could have made Mr Stark this way?"

Clint opened his mouth, about to tell me off, but I interrupted him, discontent coursing through my veins.

"Mr Stark is your teammate whether you like it or not. Teammates are supposed to have each others' backs, even I know that. You might not have agreed with the way he does things or his ideologies. Even so, as a team, you have the obligation and responsibility to ensure each others' health, and Mr Stark is no exception. Why are you playing this inane game of backstabbing like you are 10 year olds? Why can't you see through his sarcasm? Why won't you help him?" I yelled, irate and incensed. My hands were raking through my messy chestnut locks, feet thumping the ground in lividness energy. Did they honestly see no fault in their actions?

Enraged, I stomped out of the room, not bothering to bid farewell. What sort of messed up team are they?

 **Alright, Ch 1 is here. Will be upadating shortly. Sorry about the crappy writing. This is just the first draft, but I was impatient so I published it. I will edit my work later. As usual, reviews are extremely welcomed, especially criticisms or advice. I really hope you liked it. Please review, thank you.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys. This is ch2. I'm very grateful for the positive response this piece has been receiving thus far. For those who have left reviews, thank you ver much. I really appreciate your patience in waiting for this update and your patience for reading through utterly rubbish English. Like always, please leave a review. I really want to know how I can improve this. So... I hope you enjoy this second chapter!**

Third person's POV

The room was left in stunned silence. It seemed as though everybody was stuck in their own stupor. Some wore faces of guilt and remorse, others seemed unconcerned.

Apparently, their actions of obliviousness not only angered Peter, but the AI as well.

"If I may, sirs, I believe all of you owe Mr Stark a contrite apology. He has been toyed with ever since he was a child. To think he once, and finally, found solace in his closest teammates, only to have them betray him and treat him like utter trash. I am beginning to think you do not know a lot about him and his past. If I could, I would inform you all about his previous records. Unfortunately, sir had sealed that file shut and strictly forbade me from notifying you anything about this. I must say, the treatment sir has been receiving from you is deeply disturbing." the AI growled, contempt evident in its normally chirpy tone.  
Tony had always had impeccable timing, and sometimes, that presented a great problem.

Staring at his miniature device, he unknowingly stepped into the room. Gaze still focused on the machine, he called out,

"Friday, have you seen Peter? Can you send him up to my lab?"

"Sir, it seems that Mr Parker has left approximately 5 minutes ago. Would you like me to call his mobile phone?"

"Yeah. That prick left his bag in here. Thanks Fri."

"Sir, I would not advise you to conduct your call here."

"What are you talking about, Friday?" Confusion creeping into his voice.

The perplexing sight of the full team met his gaze once he tore them off his device. Quickly, he bowed his head, not wanting to cause them any more additional discomfort, then swiftly made his exit, striding out of the room in 2 large steps.

"Dammit, can't a man just use his kitchen to make one frickin sandwich?" he muttered under his breath, annoyed.

"Tony!" Bruce shouted after the man.

The remaining team members on the couch stared at the doctor with surprise and shock.

Tony must have heard him, for he halted in his steps, only to continue marching away even quickly, as if he couldn't wait to find a hole and hide away.

Bruce glared at them harshly, orbs with a slight hue of green, displaying the silent rage built up inside him. Then, he stood up abruptly and jogged after the man. That seemed to jolt Thor out of his trance as he leaped up and followed the doctor, a crease evident between his eyebrows, lips quirked down to form a deep frown on his normally joyful features.

"Tony! Wait up!"

Hearing his name only seemed to agitate Tony more so than he already was. Anxiously, he sprinted to his lab. Upon his arrival, he managed to choke out in between short breaths,

"Friday, initiate… initiate lockdown… protocol… effective immediately."

"Question: Mr Parker?"

"Yes, allow him, and only him, admittance to the workshop."

Hand clawing at his arc reactor, Tony limped to a nearby wall and slid down slowly. Waiting for Peter, he pondered over what the Avengers were doing in that room and why two of them showed a sudden interest in his miserable life.

Peter stalked to the workshop, trying to calm himself such that his little talk won't be uncovered by Tony.

He halted to a stop when he noticed the doctor and the God shuffling awkwardly at their feet, ushering each other to enter the workshop.

"Doctor, Thor, what are you doing here?" Peter lilted sweetly, trying to seem sincere, but he couldn't after witnessing how the lot had treated his mentor.

Thor opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the AI. It seemed as though it had picked up after its creator after all, with the crude remarks and impeccable timing.

"Mr Parker, sir is requesting for your presence."

The doctor tried to follow Peter into the lab, but was blocked by none other than the AI.

"Doctor, Thor, my apologies, but sir has ordered the lab on lockdown. Only Mr Parker may be permitted."

Shrugging carelessly, Peter chortled inwardly, then pushed the door to enter the workshop.

"Mr Stark, you wanted to see me?"  
Tony had his head buried in between his knees, one hand on the arc reactor, the other tugging harshly at his hair. He must've thought the smaller he could curl up, the easier he could disappear.

Alarmed by Peter's voice, he shot up from his position, accidentally knocking his elbow into the vapid wall.

"Ah…. yes Peter. Ouch. Okay, uh. I just wanted to say thank you for earlier, though I am not sure what you did since my memory is a little fuzzy. You left your bag here, so I called you in to retrieve it. If you want to, we can talk about the upgrades now."

Peter scrutinized his mentor's appearance: A thin sheen of sweat coated his forehead; his hair disheveled and unkempt, sticking up in different awkward directions; deep dark bags highlighting his dull, hollow eyes. Most importantly, the way he spoke. He lacked his usual wit and sarcasm, almost as though he feared Peter. To say Peter was concerned was a major understatement, but he knew his mentor. If he were to cling on to him and force him to answer his questions, Mr Stark would only withdraw and might even remove his access to the lab. Currently, he was the only one permitted, and he was content to keep it that way.

"Mr Stark, the upgrades can wait. Uh… I'll just take my bag and… go, alright? If you need me, just ring me up and I'll be here ASAP. You rest up, and try to nick some more sleep."

Confusion immediately darted across the mentor's features, fearing even the youngest member of the group might ostracize him.

"No! Mr Stark, it's not like that. I just… you seem tired, and I don't want to stress you out more than you already are… Besides, you need to lay down. Inspiration won't hit you in your current state, yeah?" Peter quickly protested, wary that his words might put on additional pressure on the already fragile frame.

"Yeah, kid. Thanks for the help earlier. You get home to that hot aunt of yours okay? Ring me up if she wants a date. Don't go swinging yourself around and diving into trouble." Tony smirked, trying to resume his calm and snappy facade.

Throwing a final glance at the room, specifically the pills, Peter nodded fervently. He chirped a goodbye, then bounced out of the room.

At this moment, Tony didn't know what to think, or what he was thinking. All he seemed to hear was a huge swarm of bees buzzing about in his head. He was forcefully thrust onto a roller coaster, shoved ahead on the frightful and thrilling ride.

He never liked roller coasters.

Everything blurred together and it moved too speedily, too quickly, and despite being a genius, he didn't like it as it hindered his ability to decipher the whatsoevers going on in his surroundings.

 _Snap out of it Stark. Stark men are made of iron. Stark men are made of iron. We do not show weakness. Stark men are made of iron. Stark men are made of iron. Stark men are made of -_

SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP.

He let out a desperate shriek in endeavor to stop his mind from snatching control from him.

Don't get him wrong, he loved his genius brain, but he didn't like it when this happened.

All stilled, all quieted; all paused, all froze. Even the incessant ringing he used to hear when times like this happened was absent. He let out a small sigh of relief.

Though his joy was short lived. Oblivious to the man, the doctor and the God had witnessed the entire incident, as did the archer in the vents.

It was fortunate that these imbeciles did not have their judgement severed. The God rapped his knuckles on the workshop door, nudging the man out of his trance.

Tony assumed his calm and collected face, then reached out to the AI,

"Friday, please inform them I have initiated the lockdown protocol, and tell them to fuck the hell off."

"I have alerted them previously sir, but they do not seem to budge. They are adamant in seeing you, sir."

Muttering profanities under his breath, Tony stomped over, wrath evident in his steps, then wrenched the door open roughly.

"In what universe does "lockdown protocol" translate to "please continue to bug me", Hm?"

"Brother Anthony-"  
"Don't ever call me Anthony. Ever."

"Brother Tony, I believe we have a long overdue conversation."

"Huh, do we…? Friday, do I have that on my schedule?"

"No sir."

"There you have it."

Stupefied silence accompanied the palpable tension in the workshop.

"Tony, please? Give us a chance mate, we need to talk."

"Do we though? Friday, do I have "a talk with Bruce Banner" notated on my schedule?"

"Again, no sir."

"Huh. I wonder why." He said, smirking at the two.

"Brucey, if you have a fever and are delirious, please proceed to the med bay downstairs. Thor, give him a hand will ya? Wouldn't want the brilliant scientist here to ruin his astonishing brain. That will be deeply detrimental to your team, like the capsicle always says. Can't have that now, can we."

Tony snarked, celebrating internally at the shocked expressions the two have on their faces.

"Friday, send the guests out, will ya. Dumee, get me a glass of scotch. Had enough coffee for the day."

"This way please, Doctor Banner, Thor."

Tony turned around, only to run into the archer.

"Jesus Christ, what is with people nowadays? Do you not understand the words "respect" and "privacy"?"

"Tony, we need to -"

"Talk. I've heard that a lot lately. Friday, help me out here. Thanks Dumee."

"I believe sir does not have a talk scheduled with you, Agent Barton."

"Thank you, Fri, you're the best. Drink?" Tony grinned, gesticulating to the glass in his hand.

Clint just looked away in exasperation.

"Friday, make a note to lockdown all the vents during lockdown protocol. Can't have assassins sneaking up on me to carve out this amazing brain of mine, can we."

"Yes sir."

Tony then proceeded to ignore Clint's unexpected presence, choosing to continue his tinkering with the newest model of the iron man suit he had been working on. He snorted: it's not like he's going to use it anytime soon after all, with this whole mess blaring at his face.

"In case you mistook the silence as a permission to stay, it's not. I'd appreciate if you could pick up your archer ass and shoot your way out of my workshop. Why in fuck's sake are you all crowding me all of a sudden anyway, eh?"

"Tony, I saw your entire episode from the vents."  
"So what, Barton? That gives you the right to question me? After actively isolating and avoiding me? That gives you the right to waltz in here and do whatever you want to? That gives you the right to invade my privacy? Come on, birdbrain, it honestly does not take a genius to know that you people want nothing to do with me. Why are all of you pouncing on me?"

Tony raged, stepping closer and closer to the agent menacingly with each vindictive question. The archer kept an emotionless expression on like the way he was trained to do so.

" _Focus, Clint."_ He chided himself. " _You're here to collect information."_

"Tony. I am here on official business. Fury wants to know more about your background information and your past. Currently, SHIELD does not have it in great detail and they intend to fix it. Please don't make this difficult."

Tony visibly blanched at the mention of his past.

 _Howard stalked over, screaming profanities at an 8-year-old Tony._

 _Howard constantly telling Tony that he was not good enough, that he was never going to be good enough, and that there was no way he was ever going to succeed in his sorry excuse for a life._

 _Howard absent at all his graduation ceremonies, award presentations and competitions._

 _Howard slapping his son whenever he cried because crying is a weakness, crying is pathetic, Stark men are made of iron and crying is prohibited._

 _The devastating death of his dear butler Jarvis, one he treated like his father._

 _People pretending to befriend him when really, all they wanted was to manipulate this innocent child and his wealth._

 _Becoming a public figure, yet have the feeling of utter loneliness and desolation engulf him._

 _Realising the destructive power of his weapons, and who it truly was wielded against._

 _Kidnapped and tortured at Afghanistan._

 _Watching the only friend he knew, Yinsen, die, because his father had been correct all along, because he was not good enough._

 _Having Obie, the person he trusted the most, rip the arc reactor straight out of his chest, even going so far as to kill him._

 _Having to deal with the aftermath of all the psychological abuse and the post traumatic stress. Alone._

 _Having to put up the thick walls he so carefully built whenever he wasn't alone._

 _Have the world call him a narcissistic being even when he placed it so obviously in order to hide his weaknesses._

 _Getting to know the Avengers gave him a temporary shelter, but he was foolish to think that they would ever stick with him through thick and thin._

 _Him giving the world his all, yet have everybody step on him, under-appreciate him, even see him as a threat._

 _Meeting Peter, the one person he knew that looked up to him as a father and a mentor. And he might have just ruined this friendship he cherished dearly between this kid and himself._

 _And Barton just gets to stomp in here and demand to know about his past?_

"Tony. Hey, Tony."

Clint's voice brought him out from the rapid flashbacks his mind was playing, entirely unaware of the fact that he now had tears cascading down his face, dripping onto the workshop table. Only when a tissue was handed his way did he realise his repulsive actions.

 _Idiot, Stark. You're such a weak person. Crying is showing weakness, and you seem to have a potential in doing that, don't you? Pathetic._

Quickly, Tony wiped off his tear tracks, pretending nothing had happened.

"Get. Out. Tell Fury he can fuck off." Tony punctuated, voice silent and dangerous.

Never had Clint heard the billionaire spoke so quietly, so seriously, lacking his usual wittiness. He used to think that he would be grateful for the day the billionaire had finally decided to shut his damn mouth. Never had he thought he would be concerned simply because the billionaire refused to speak.

His soft footfalls echoed throughout the lab as he made his exit, his gaze landing on the prescribed medicine sitting innocently on the bench.

Peter was right.

He needed to fix this.

 _They_ needed to fix this.

 _What won't you tell us, Stark?_

 **Erm, yeah, that's it for this chapter. Please kindly point out all the grammar mistakes cuz my English is abysmal. Again, please review, please do. Please tell me if you think it is horrendous. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it, and please leave a review. Thanks! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Just a warning, crappy Grammar, language and content. This piece makes absolutely no sense. I need ideas and suggestions on what happens next because I'm not sure how this should pan out. Please help me out here and leave a review? Again, I appreciate those who have left encouraging comments and urge you all to leave constructive criticisms and things to . For now, here's the next chapter and I apologise for the long wait.**

It isn't easy. It never was and it never will be.

A person can only withstand so much. No matter how tough or how strong one is, one can only withstand that much, until they collapse, or in technical terms, malfunction.

The world moves on really quickly and will not subject to an individual's wishes. It is harsh, it is indifferent, and it is brutal. This is reality. It moves at a rapid pace, and it's either to keep up with it, or get left behind, transforming into worthless junks of the society.

You work yourself hard to the core, work diligently, ensure perfection, because the alternative is so much worst and you do not wish your story to be written that way. It's almost childish, the way you crave reassurance that you are in control of your own life, when in truth you're not.

And so, when you have finally ran dry on fuel and reached that limit, it's as if you were thrown from running a hundred miles a minute to the calm and peaceful tides of the ocean. For a moment, you don't feel anything.

The next second, the weight of the world crashes onto you and you are overwhelmed, inundated. You can't think, and your brain short circuits.

That was how Tony felt. Or is currently feeling.

Everything he had done, burning down to nothing.

In his hands, 3 bottles of pills are clutched onto tightly. A glass of scotch carelessly swung in the other calloused hand.

He tried, trust him he really did. But was it worthwhile? Really, what had he accomplished?

 _Why did he even bother to try in the first place?_

When Clint returned to the room in which the team had originally convened in, the God and the scientist had already arrived. Both bore looks of concern and agitation having just witnessed what seemed like a panic attack of the mechanic.

Everybody paid no heed to the fact that the God was talking, engrossed in their own tasks. The captain, the supposed leader of the group, was exchanging sketching tactics with the witch. The spy was sharpening her knives, occasionally staring up to the ceiling, lost in her own thoughts.

Clint was infuriated. It had taken a kid, a literal 15 year old kid, to pull their head out of their asses, and they still had the audacity to behave such moronically.

He flipped out his phone, shot a quick text requesting Peter's presence, and stilled. Trying to keep his anger in check, he mouthed "enough".

Suddenly, the room fell silent, void of any noise and movement. He wondered how the team had managed to hear his warning and yet managed to overlook Stark's dire condition when it was glaring right at their faces.

"He needs help. We need to help him." Clint spoke, his voice eerily collected and smooth.

It was the captain that first stood and perfunctorily threw out, "No."

Once again, the room engaged in an active battle, one with words and spit rather than bullets and blood.

It was like babysitting a group of kindergarten children.

"BE QUIET!"

It had taken the God to quell the disturbing noises.

"Have you not yet realised the severity of our mistakes? The neglect Brother Tony had been suffering from? The downward spiral he had dove head first into? We could lose our teammate for good."

"He's a monster. He killed my family and took my brother. Did you know how it felt like? Does he know how it feels like? To feel petrified, and alone? To feel utterly hopeless? You're the one that needs to awake, son of Odinson. Stark grew up in a wealthy family. He had whatever he wanted with a flick of his wrist. He grew up in a greenhouse, had the best served and lived the best life thanks to the influence of his parents. He is a spoilt brat, and that demonstration? It was a cry for attention. Well guess what? He's not going to get it, at least not from me, because I'm not going to be deceived like all of you are. He deserves it, he's a cold-blooded murderer."

"Am I the only one that thinks witchy here needs a duct tape to her mouth?" Peter announced his presence with a sneer.

"While you were riveted in your tragic life story, the doctor had been digging up files and previous records of the team SHIELD has. Yes, the information was already provided to you individually when the team first assembled. My guess is, you people didn't bother to read it because if you did, you surely would have noticed one thing. These confidential documents detailed the childhood and major incidents of each member. On Mr Stark's file, however, it mentioned nothing pertaining to his childhood. On "Major incidents", only 1 word is imprinted: Afghanistan. If Mr Stark had a brilliant childhood like Wanda portrayed, why wasn't it indicated? Or was it because Mr Stark refused to share the related information, and if so, why? What really happened in Afghanistan? Why does his profile seem so dodgy?"

Once again, Peter's speech brought everyone to reflect on their actions.

"I didn't know Stark had to be put on medication for his mental health." Natasha began, speaking slowly and cooly.

"I didn't know anything about his childhood, but when I mentioned Howard his face went stoic and he lashed out at me, claiming that the "Howard I knew and the Howard you knew are 2 very different people". There was hatred in his voice." The captain reported, albeit sarcastically. The more he thought of it, the deeper the crease between his eyebrows sunk. Eventually, his face morphed into one of concern and suspicion.

"Come to think of it, this is weird and uncanny…Friday, can you pull up the media documents pertinent to Stark's childhood?" Steve ordered, finally taking charge of the situation like a leader would.

"Wait, you're just gonna trust them? Seriously?" Wanda protested, leaping up in indignation.

"Oh, I'm sorry, but in case you haven't noticed, the rest of us here didn't exactly lead a simple life either. Cap, frozen in the ice for decades; Thor, experienced the courtesy of his brother betraying him; Banner, being hunted by the government constantly; Natasha, the training that helped her achieve the skills she possess today; Clint, his tragic childhood. Sure, alright, Stark might have been captured, but at least he had the luxury to enjoy his childhood and exceptional intelligence for more than 17 years, unlike the 2 assassins; at least he didn't suffer through the distress of losing his family members, unlike me; at least he didn't have to undergo betrayal, unlike Thor. So what if he hasn't had rainbows and sunshine, the rest of us haven't too! What makes him so god damned special? What gives him the right to be under the limelight?" the redhead scoffed incredulously, desperately trying to make her dense teammates see the blatant trap placed in front of them.

"Wanda, it wouldn't hurt to check. If we are incorrect, then at least we wouldn't feel guilty at whatever self-destructive stunt Stark pulls." Natasha enunciated, as placid as ever.

Wanda gaped at the assassin, face crowded with utter disbelief. She yanked her coat off the couch, then marched out of the room sulkily, making sure to slam the door when she reached her quarters.

"She isn't wrong. Sure, Stark might have PTSD and stuff, but we all do, to some extent. We all have our fair share of nightmares and attacks. But, I'm staying to figure this mess out. Stark might be a genius, but he is pretty idiotic when it comes to dealing with emotions. Maybe we are just over-exaggerating this, but like Nat said, wouldn't hurt to check."

The group nodded. Standing, they walked over to the table and pulled out their respective chairs, ready to begin the discussion. The captain ushered Peter to the front, then choosing to locate himself at the 2nd row instead.

"Uh, okay, Friday? Now might be a good time to pull out the records, thanks."

Peter asked hesitantly, uncertain of how he was to act in front of the Avengers.

A holographic screen materialized, documenting a vast number of newspaper clippings, illustrating the billionaire's feats and publicly recognized accomplishments. The audience were taking in this new information when abruptly-

"I did it!"

They turned to the scientist in sync, confusion painted across their features.

"I overrode and hacked into the file Friday said Stark kept sealed. Now, we can browse whatever secrets he's hiding from us, however we want to. Uh, but this will majorly invade his privacy…"

Banner looked up from his Starkpad gingerly, questioning for the approval of his group.

"Do it."

"What…?"

"I said, show them, whatever's inside. We need to know what's going on with him, even though he might not like it."

The others nodded in agreement, albeit some seemed skeptical.

"Okay… here goes…"

A video started playing on the holographic screen.

It had looked ordinary enough. An 8 year old Stark clutching onto a robot, a gold medal glimmering in the summer sun, a wide smile broken across his face. Never had they seen Stark grinning in such a genuine manner.

He looked so different, so… young, innocent, and so… happy.

"I've gotta show dad this!"

"Young sir, I believe that your father is currently occupied by other… tasks at hand in his workshop."

"But Jarvis! He will be so proud of me! Come on!"

Despite his young age, Tony had never listened to anybody, unless under extreme circumstances.

The butler sighed in annoyed fondness, then followed the young master to Howard's workshop.

Tony rapped his little knuckles at the harsh, wooden door, feet bouncing with excitement. Without awaiting a response, he dashed into the room. The smile on his face was so bright that it could have powered his arc reactor for a decade.

"Dad! Look what I made!"

It was as if a typhoon blew across the room. Papers scattered haphazardly all over the ground; pencils and maps lurked in the corners and most importantly, broken scotch bottles laid wasted on the floor. Glass bottles that contained the brown liquid could be located all across the room. The man addressed had a glass of scotch balanced precariously on his lap, shooting bitter glares at his son. Regardless of the unnerving situation, young Tony paid no heed and rushed up to his father, handing him the miniature sized robot and the gold medal previously found dangling off his neck.

"What. Is. This. Atrocity?!" the man raged, waving the gadget in dramatic gestures.

"It is a robot, dad! It can inform you of the weather, temperature, date and time in real time! It even has a GPS system installed!"

Tony stared at the man earnestly, eyes twinkling in elation.

The taller man gave one careless glance at the device, before suddenly throwing it at the ground, medal in tow, and crunching it with his boot.

The audience jumped and flinched at the loud noise emitted, as well as the unexpected graphics currently displayed.

"This, Tony, is a piece of utter crap and junk. This is a fucking disappointment. Giving that gold medal to you is like handing the Nobel Peace Prize to Hitler. It is absolutely ridiculous."

The man yelled, struggling to stand up in his intoxicated state.

"Can this rubbish help me find Steve? No. NO. Fucking waste of space. You used my resources, the Stark resources, to construct this trash? You tarnish the Stark name and ruin my reputation, asshole. What more are you than a waste of space, money and resources, hm?"

The man continued to shriek, stepping closer and closer to young Tony with each sentence. Tony had his eyes blown wide, tears shimmering in his eyes, body shaking out of fear.

The man then picked up the hammer, smashing it relentlessly into the clump of metal that was previously the prized robot. In its place only stood broken and wretched screws, dented metals and snapped wirings.

Frustrated, the man screamed, hurling his glass of scotch at Tony, who has now curled up against the wall, evidently frightened and intimidated by the formidable figure.

The glass hit his forehead, crashing at impact, creating a sizeable gash at the child's forehead. The alcohol beverage slid down his face and dripped down his clothes, along with the blood of the kid. The wetness in Tony's eyes had doubled, threatening to fall down, but he held them in fearfully, clinging onto them as if it was his lifeline.

"You. Are. A. Worthless. Piece. Of. Shit. Repeat after me."

"I… I…"

"Say it!" The man shouted, thrusting an offending finger at the minor's heart.

"I am a worthless piece of shit." Young Tony whispered, little hands wringing at themselves, trying to quell the tremors that ran through his body.

A loud slap came across his face, echoing throughout the room.

The audience at the room leaped up from their seats, baffled and outraged by the atrocious act.

"Louder." The man ordered, shadow looming at the smaller figure.

"I am a worthless piece of shit." He repeated, this time slightly louder.

"Louder!" The man demanded, raising the volume of his voice each time.

"I am a worthless piece of shit!" This time, the boy yelled, tears starting to stream down his face.

"What are you?" The man enquired stiffly.

"A worthless piece of shit." Tony replies, voice firm and quiet.

"That's it. Know your place, don't just go barging in here like you're actually somebody. Now, get. The. Hell. OUT!" Howard howled, eyes blazing with so much revulsion and hatred that it could burn down the room.

Tony kept his head down and quickly, made his exit to the corridor.

Once he was out of the room, he lifted his little head. That action elicited a gasp from the team.

Never, have they seen Tony's eyes filled with such despair, sorrow and hopelessness.

A moment later, the emotions disappeared, only to be hidden behind a barrier of determination and arrogance, much like the eyes of the current Tony.

The video faded out until there was nothing but black void on the screen.

"Oh, God. What did we just witness?"

 **This chapter is beyond abysmal and crappy and defies all sense of logic. I know that. Please leave reviews though? A few suggestions or ideas of what you want to see happen next? Or constructive crticisms. They all work. Just please leave a review? Thanks!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey guys! Really sorry for the slow updates. I want to thank everyone who has been leaving encouraging comments as well as those who have left constructive criticisms. If you have any ideas of what you want to see happen next, or constructive criticisms and points to improve, please leave a review. This chapter is messier and disorganized because I didn't really proofread it, and I apologise for that. I hope you still like it though! And please leave reviews!**

They never knew silence quite this deafening.

You know that horrible noise of a prolonged din? Perhaps gunshots in a raid or the drilling in construction sites? It leaves an incessant ringing by your ears as a legacy.

This was how it felt like.

Except this was magnified by infinite times because they were watching somebody they knew, or they thought they knew, being abused in such a way.

More specifically, the supposedly most arrogant and narcissistic one of the group.

Perhaps the reason for this is because certain people see their experiences being exposed, such as agent Barton; or that they couldn't believe what has just been revealed.

More importantly, how they had clearly misjudged the character 'Tony Stark'.

The captain's eyes were blown wide by incredulity, unable to believe that his friend, one he saw as a good man, could possibly bestow such horrendous treatment on his son.

"Uh, n-next item, please?" Peter tried tentatively, unsure whether he wanted to know more about this 'childhood' of his mentor's. By this time, the youngest member of the group had silent tears streaming freely down his face, eyes rimmed red and hands clawing at his jeans, leaving deep indentations behind.

The blackness transitioned into a piece of lined paper, stained with patches of transparent liquid, which I presume are tears, with neat handwriting darting across the lines.

It read:

 _Dear Diary_

 _I was kidnapped for the 3rd time in 2 years today. Dad refused to pay ransom, like always. I have to admit, these abductions are helping me build up a stronger pain tolerance. I no longer feel pain when glass shards are thrown into me like I was some kind of dartboard. I guess I am getting something out of these kidnappings, eh?_

 _I got out with lacerations on my stomach and arms, broken bones located at my knees and toes, bruised and broken ribs, and more bruises all over my body. At least it was better than last time. I count that as a win._

 _I hate that I have disappointed Dad again. I don't blame him for not paying the ransom - it would only show that Stark Industries is willing to negotiate with terrorists. In addition, it's not that a worthless piece of shit like me is worth that much money. I am just a burden, the son that was a failure to the Stark family. Frankly, I deserved that beating. I guess that's how weak scums like me are treated in this society._

 _I just hope that I may be of assistance to Dad's search for the Captain. He is my idol, always so righteous and willing to fight for his beliefs. I admire him._

 _Mom has been having 'Dark Days' again. She's locked herself in her room, refusing to see anyone. She might not know, but I swear I could hear her cries and sniffles behind those closed doors. I wish so badly that I could comfort her, clear her mind of whatever she's thinking. Again, a worthless piece of shit can't do that for her. What can I do? Nothing. How can I help? I can't._

 _Enough proof to indicate just how useless I am._

 _Signing off now._

 _Tony_

"That idiot. Was that how he thought of himself? _Is_ that how he _thinks_ of himself?"

The scientist spoke, a tint of green hinting his cheeks.

The others chorused a silent agreement.

It was pitiful and infuriating at the same time - distressing knowing that the narcissistic billionaire believed that he truly was the equivalent of nothing and possibly worse, aggravating that a person could possibly put their family member, a person supposedly they see of most significance, under such traumatizing experiences. Just imagine how wrecked Howard's parenting was in order to make his son believe his worth as arduous.

"Captain of America, were you friends with this hideous monster?" the God of Thunder boomed, clearly taken aback of the suggestion that the virtuous figure was in relations with this… creature.

"I… he wasn't the Howard I knew… The Howard I was friends with was kind and generous, always willing to help a friend or aid the helpless. This person… I don't recognize this person at all… No wonder Tony didn't want to mention him…" the Captain stuttered, then trailed off, lost in his own thoughts. Was this Stark's father? Was this Howard? Was this _real_?

He had always strove to see Howard's benevolence in Tony. He had affronted the genius by even merely proposing that Tony and Howard were the same…

"Captain, you can wallow in your guilt later. We, now, need to figure out the damage done to Tony and the long term effects on him." Natasha hissed, venom lacing her voice, though if you strain your ear and listen hard enough, you could hear concern and warmth underlying her tone.

"Wait! There's still one more file…" Peter yelped, though he wasn't sure if they wanted to see more of this… mess that is ineffable by words.

"What is it?" Clint enquired, addressing no one in particular.

Once again, the screen faded out and showed… nothing?

 _Young sir_

Ah, so it was a recording.

 _By the time you have heard this, I would have already taken my final breath in this world._

 _It was a pleasure getting to know you, to watch you grow, and mature into the young man you are today. It was a long 14 years, and I thoroughly enjoyed every moment spent in this family._

 _Young sir, I know things haven't always been easy for you. But you were so strong, so courageous; you barrelled head on, overcoming obstacle after obstacle, growing wiser and wiser. It comforts me to see just how… much, you have done in a meagre 14 years._

 _Being able to witness this process was a genuine honor. From your first circuit board, to your first machine, to your first award and the numerous awards acquired later. It was certainly heartwarming and encouraging._

 _I know that you are constantly discouraged by some… figures in your life. You never show it, but I know you are offended and… hurt by those snide remarks. Do not let them get to you, prove them wrong, young sir. When you feel dispirited or deterred, know that I will always be with you, know that you have my perpetual support and that I will always cheer you on._

 _Young sir, I know you put a profound amount of trust in Obadiah. You might not see it, but he is… a terrible influence in your life. Please do not be affronted by what I say next, young sir. Obadiah is dangerous and he is a predator. He looks to own Stark Industries eventually. Do not be deceived by his fraudulent acts._

 _Young sir, as my final parting wish, I wish you a successful and happy life. When you smile, you light up the whole mansion, enough to bring joy into other people's life. You are this ripple, the one that initiates the cheer and fun, and disseminates this gift into people's hearts. You may not know it, but you do._

 _Unlike me, young sir, you still have a long life ahead of you. Don't waste it, and make the most out of it. People like me have had their turn, had their opportunity to shine, and had their time to explore. It is now your turn. Promise me, grasp the opportunity tightly and don't ever let go._

 _I thank you for everything, young sir. You were like the son I have never had. It was a… delightful experience. I only hope, young sir, that if it isn't too much to ask for, that you don't forget me._

 _Thank you, Tony. Be well._

 _This is Jarvis, signing off._

The audio reached its end, bringing quietness and stillness, as well as a load of teartracks adorning the audience's facial features.

"Wow, something un-violent for once eh?" the archer joked, trying to lighten up the solemn mood.

"It is nice to think that the Man of Iron had somebody even when his life was difficult." the God sighed contentedly.

Bruce cleared his throat, then reminded everybody at the task at hand. They have time to mourn later, but for now, they had to focus on compiling and analysing the information.

"Right, uh, Dr Banner, can you list some of the psychological effects of ch-child abuse?" the Captain stammered, still not able to bring himself to believe that his dear teammate has suffered under the hands of his former friend.

"There's anxiety, depression and paranoia, most commonly. Victims might also possess a low self-esteem and frequent self-doubt. Under severe cases, victims experience post-traumatic stress disorder."

The doctor replied smoothly, albeit monotonously, as though he extracted the information straight from a textbook.

"What about the consequences of the kidnappings? Mr Stark had already been kidnapped thrice in that diary entry, who knows how many times he has been kidnapped during his younger ages?" Peter began hesitantly, uncertain of whether it was the correct question to ask. He raked his hands through his hair repeatedly, waves of anxiety vibing off of him. The archer patted his back lightly, attempting to ease the internal panic of the young man while quelling his own.

"It should be the same, though I believe the stress lies in the abuse as opposed to the kidnappings. That diary entry mainly talked about disappointing that sick excuse for a life, not how much he cried because of the injuries he attained." the doctor pronounced calmly, almost as if he was a professional medical personnel.

"Natasha, you've been quiet. What's in your mind?" the Captain gestured to the spy, his legs bouncing incessantly due to apprehension and distress.

The black-clad figure crossed her arms on her chest and shut her eyes tight. She appeared to be deep in thought, ignorant to the outside world, only to snap her head up and resurface as quickly as she went under.

"I think, that he's scared; that underneath all that wit and sass, he's the child that believes he's worth nothing; that he doesn't want us to think he's weak, and puts a lot of effort in making us believe he is strong. I think he is emotionally distraught, and due to his self-destructive tendancies, potentially suicidal. I think the cold faces and silent treatment we've been giving him nudged him off the edges, and I think we disappointed the huge amount of faith and trust he entrusted us with. And most importantly, I think he's still hiding something in that shell he calls his refuge. And I know we have to find out what that is."

"I applaud you for your sincere speech and astute observation, agent Romanoff." the AI chimed in, the unexpected voice causing everyone to flinch.

"Hey, Friday, good day, huh?" Clint tried, attempting to disguise the fact that they had just hacked her database.

"Agent Barton, good day to you too. Yes, I know the Doctor has hacked my information server. You'll be thrilled to be informed that no, you did not disrupt my operations. I unlocked the folder for you. My primary protocol is to ensure Sir's safety and well-being, and I believe this easily falls into that parameter." the AI responded, with a hint of teasing in her tone.

The audience released a collective sigh of relief once they gained comfort and reassurance that they, in fact, had not invaded Tony's privacy.

"What's next then? What do we do?" Peter asked, fear evident in his voice. Perhaps he fears what the future has installed for him, more precisely, how many more haunting incidents will be revealed. The kid was obviously shook of the day's experience, as his originally defiant and charming figure had now been reduced to a disheveled and weary appearance.

"I believe the next best action would be to assign one member to consult Sir, while the others try to uncover the hidden details behind the Afghanistan incident." Once again, the AI spoke. The contempt and disdain earlier seemed to have vaporized once she realised they were now making an effort to aid her creator. For a computer, she sure is an intelligent one. One that accurately expresses her emotions as well.

"Well said, guardian angel of brother Tony." the God announced, eyes flitting to the ceiling as a gesture of silent gratitude.

"Thank you, Mr Odinson. In addition, I would like to alert you that Sir has been awake for over 81 hours, as I have previously mentioned. He is currently drowning himself in alcohol. It is slightly disturbing that he is clutching 3 full prescribed medicine bottles in his hand tenaciously. Sir has remained in that posture ever since you have began excavating information from his secured file, that being 53 minutes ago."

At that, the Avengers stood up immediately and began tidying their appearances. They knew what they had done, and they know what they had to do.

The only question that remains is: who is going to speak to him?

 **Okay, again this defies all sense of logic, language and grammar. I'm terribly sorry if this offended or bored anyone, due to my poor English skills. Please leave advice or suggestions. Please also do leave constructive criticisms. Thank you! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Uh, sorry for the late update and for the horrifying English. Again, this chap does not have a mere sense of logic or grammar or language, so I'm sorry if this offends you in any way. Still, I hope you might enjoy it. Please leave reviews and constructive criticisms before you leave the page! Let me know what you think! Thanks.**

 **Here goes...**

To say that Tony was at an utter loss of how he should feel was a major understatement.

His memories were constantly in sentry mode, pouncing on him the moment he tries to escape this harsh reality by succumbing to sleep.

It was slightly alleviated after the Avengers first assembled, because he had a family. Though they did not know of his...flashbacks, the mere thought that he had something to live for, to work for, to fight for was comforting.

They never knew of the significance and impact they made on his life.

As a small gesture to thank them for their presence, he made them little gifts. Such as upgraded weaponries and suits; giving each of them respective personalised living quarters, created a protocol that alerted him when any of them were yanked into their past etc. It was the least he could do for repaying them for putting up with him.

But he knew that the day his temporary family would grow weary of him is inevitable, and even imminent. He knew that no matter what he did to delay or postpone this, they would still leave.

Because Tony Stark didn't deserve a family. Frankly, he was the only one that didn't have any practical skills in the field. Once the suit was damaged, he was down, and he would only become a burden to those still fighting toe and nail to subdue their enemies in battle.

He knew that deep down, he never truly had a place within the team, that they weren't made to accomodate a failure like him.

It's the joke of the century: recruiting a mechanic to a superhero fighting squad.

He knew everybody had their demons, as did he. That was why he hacked his own file at SHIELD and removed any information he deemed too detailed for his comfort. Which was essentially, everything. From his abusive childhood, to Afghanistan, to Obadiah's betrayal. Everything, removed.

It was foolish of him to ever think that the act of deleting something from a computer meant that it was permanently removed. No, it was quite ironically, the opposite. They were like the stains on the white marble floor, where he scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed all over again, but they just _won't come off._ The stubborn marks just seemed to age in time.

He didn't want to have this showdown of "Who had the cruelest past". Nope, he didn't. He wanted to bury them 6 feet underground, or even all the way down to hell, where they could burn and incinerate until there's nothing left but dust.

He was an empathetic person, even if he didn't show it much. Why did you think he invited all the Avengers to live in his tower? Even specifically building in a laboratory for Dr Banner, a shooting range for Clint and Natasha, an extra-large gym for Steve with multiple stashes of punching bags, a cabinet stacked full of various flavours of pop tarts for Thor, and a communal floor for the Avengers? Why did you think he encoded that protocol? Why did you think he only retorted with a weak, sarcastic comment even when they insulted him deliberately, and meant it?

Tony Stark knew everything and had everything.

The only thing he couldn't have, was unsurprisingly, something money cannot purchase.  
People that he can trust.

It was like Yinsen said, he had everything and he had nothing.

Both Yinsen and Jarvis, 2 people who had the most impact in his life told him not to waste his life.

He tried. He changed for the better, but sometimes- no. Always, he felt like he just wasn't good enough, that he was never going to be good enough for anyone.

It's like what his dad said, he's a worthless piece of shit.

He was surviving, but he was not living. For the majority of the time, he felt like he saw his surroundings, he knew what was happening, and he performed necessary acts to divert the attention from himself, but he never _felt_ emotions, or sentiments. It was like he was constantly in a catatonic state; he could see, smell, hear, but never sense.

He tried very hard, fought with all his might with everything he had. What did he get in return?  
He acquired insomnia, depression, anxiety and PTSD. Not that he's complaining, he knew very much it was well-deserved.

He wished life provided him with a 'quit' button, where he would just press it, and wake up to realise that it was all a dream.

He yearned for escape, he yearned for an exit in this enigma they call life.

It's like they said, it's the thought that counts, isn't it?

He tried, and he put in a lot of effort. He wanted to prove the critics wrong, but they were relentless and insatiable.

He was tired, and exhausted, and devastated, and just… done.

Please, could he just... surrender?

 _Please?_

A warm and petite hand came into contact with his calloused ones. Gently, it pried the bottles and the glass out of its tenacious grip.

Tony would be infuriated that they had once again invaded his contemplation and privacy, but at this point he was too far gone to even begin to pay heed to his surroundings.

He knew those hands, and he knew they were the deadly assassin's. No other's hands could be so soothing and threatening at the same time.

A little flicker of hope lit up in Tony's chest, that perhaps his team still cared about him. But he knew better than to bring his hopes up, so he smothered that little gleam of light.

"Came to finish what bird-brain started? To prod for background information for SHIELD?" Came the remark. It was unnerving to hear the genius speak such monotonously and distressingly, the misery drawling in his voice.

"No, Tony. Just here as a friend, if you want to talk, I'm here, no business, just friendly company."

Tony just sighed, not even bothering to bite back with a witty retort. He wrung his hands together and dipped his head down, black curls obscuring his face, preventing Natasha from reading into his thoughts.

They lapsed into awkward silence, Tony actively ignoring the assassin in favour of dwelling in his thoughts. He just sat there, physically present, but spiritually exploring every inch of the overheated central processing unit in his brain.

Natasha sat next to him, revelling in the silence like Tony was. Witnessing Tony in such a… vulnerable state just reminded her of the things she had done and the times she had wronged him. She had been the first one of the group to meet him and she was a trained spy, dammit! And still, she couldn't penetrate through these thick walls Tony had encompassed himself with.

These walls, they weren't constructed by bricks and cement, they were forged with the strongest possible metal - vibranium. Being a genius, these walls were designed to thicken automatically if someone even so much as to scratch the surface of the steel. Behind tightly sealed doors, there was this man, a shivering, shaking, trembling mess, eyes bloodshot and nose running with snot, hands clawing at his hair, his scalp and his skin, leaving scrapes and scratches behind, throat hoarse of all the screaming, crying and shrieking, desperate pleas for people to understand him, to see through his act.

The fact that Natasha was easily deceived by the genius, like other mundane people, heavily added to her already piling high guilt, remorse and repentance.

Suddenly, she felt her mouth open, words tumbling clumsily in tandem.

"I uh, in the Red Room, where they trained me. They put me and other people together, and we had to compete in hand to hand combat. It was like the fucking Hunger Games. It was messed up. They ingrained our minds with one rule: there was no place for us in the society. It was killed or be killed, but that wasn't the worst part."

She paused for effect, aware that Tony was now listening to her. Natasha herself was starting to feel her vision blur as she took a shuddering breath and continued to speak about her experience.

"They had this graduation ceremony. They would forcefully sterilize the girls such that they cannot conceive. They thought that this would make us ruthless when killing because we do not have a family to go back to, and we do not have to worry about them. I got on SHIELD's radar in a bad way, and Clint was sent to kill me. I suppose you already know that part though, considering you hacked all of our files."

The assassin concluded, poker face sliding back up.

"I sympathize with you, Nat. I do. But is there a reason you're telling me this?"

The billionaire sounded weary and cautious, knowing full well that Natasha was recounting her childhood as a tactic to tempt him to talk about his.

"My point is, you are not alone. You can talk to us, your team, or at least me."

"Are they my team though? Are they? Or is it your team you're referring to? They are two entirely different cases, do not mix them up, Nat." Tony sighed, fatigue seeping from his bones. The spy could tell that he was not holding it together and was about to collapse.

There's too much water by the dam, too much flowing in at a rapid pace. Despite the fact that metals are strong elements, they will still rust and thus become prone to the unrelenting attack.

The transparent liquid began to ooze out from under the metal doors, pounding and slamming itself against the wall, begging to be let out.

So let out it was.

"I did my best for the team, I upgraded weapons, I devised strategies, and I gave them a place to reside in, a place they could call home. I made sure they felt comfortable, I helped them transition, and I tried to look out for their demons. In return, they threw jab after jab at me, or the most recent play, the silent treatment. I don't blame them, I completely agree with whatever they're saying about me, "not willing to sacrifice", "self-absorbed", "got a stick up his ass", "insensitive and inconsiderate", "not like Howard". Whatever it was, I knew they were right. But I tried, I really tried to make myself appeal to them and 'be nice'. I know that I don't play well with people, but I have my reasons, and yet I still try. I made mistakes, big ones too, and I know I had to clean up my mess and take on the burden. I do not blame them for their actions, but I'm just tired of trying. Like shit, if Cap doesn't like me because I'm not Howard, I'm sorry; if Wanda doesn't like me because I killed her family, I'm sorry; if Clint doesn't like me because I was ignorant; I'm sorry; if Friday doesn't like me because I always mistake her as Jarvis; I'm sorry; if Peter doesn't like me because I'm a horrible mentor; I'm fucking sorry too; if you don't like me because I exist, I'll solve that problem!"

He stopped, boarderline hysterical. He took a deep breath, then continued.

"All my life, I just wanted a friend to trust, I just wanted genuine approval from somebody, but apparently that is too luxurious for a vile being like me. So if you don't mind, I'd like to resolve that issue now."

Tony reached for his arc reactor, only to be obstructed by Natasha's soft hands.

Natasha knew what she was going to do was extremely risky, but after eliciting a confession like that, she knew Tony needed it.

"Tony, listen to me. Cap was right, you are not Howard. In fact, you are nowhere near Howard. He lived an atrocious existence and he was wrong to ever abuse you like that. The two of you cannot even begin to be compared, because he was just so nasty and you are just too generous, alright?"

"No, he didn't do anything to me, what made you think that way?" Tony retracted from the embrace immediately, eyes struggling to maintain eye contact. Natasha could practically see his walls slamming back up thick and quick. How he could still try to protect his father's underserved reputation was beyond her.

"Tony, we saw the file. Peter told us about the insomniac episodes and some other stuff, so we took the liberty of hacking some folders like you hacked ours. Friday was kind enough to assist us, right?"

The spy cooed, trying to lull Tony out of that shelter.

"I apologise sir. But my primary protocol is to ensure your well-being, and like I told the team, this easily falls into that purview. And in response to you, sir, I do not hate you for confusing me with Mr Jarvis. I'm sure he was a helpful and remarkable AI, it's understandable that you miss him."

The AI rang out, reassuring her creator that she did not intend to betray him at all.

"Fantastic! Now your team is just going to think that I'm a pathetic and weak person!" Tony retaliated, jumping up and throwing his hands up at the ceiling, only to sit down a moment later, shaking his head and laughing like a madman.

"Oh well, it's not like I'm in that team anymore anyway. Correction: It wasn't like I was ever in that team. I'm just the one that provides the money, tech and residence, nothing much."

He chuckled, bowing his head and closing his eyes.

Natasha's hand found itself on Tony's back, moving itself in soothing circles.

"Tony, for a genius, you are pretty moronic, eh? Of course you have a place in this team. You were one of the original avengers for Pete's sake. Get that through that thick skull of yours alright? And stop drinking scotch, that stuff will kill you. Want some water?"

Natasha jested in a playful and placating manner, making it known that her comment was sincere and meant no harm. She stood up from her chair and turned around to pour a glass of water from each of them.

At the mention of water, Tony flinched, then tried to hide it from Natasha's piercing gaze. Of course, this did not go unnoticed by the spy. She sauntered back, carrying 2 glasses of water, one half filled and one nearly full. She handed Tony the half-filled glass of water.

"You know, for a tower this colossal, it's slightly weird that you did not bother to include a swimming pool or a jacuzzi. They can be effective tools for training too, you know?"

She tried, seemingly casual and nonchalant, but she knew there was another reason behind that.

Something more traumatic.  
Tony, seeing he had already wailed and whined like a petulant child in front of his (former) teammate, saw no purpose in withdrawing that information from her. He knew that they would bug him about it incessantly until he spilled anyway.

He took a deep breath, then another, then began his thrilling tale of the 3 months he was in captivity.

 **That's it for this chapter. I am at a loss of how to lay out the story after this chapter, so any feedback, suggestions or comments are extremely welcome. Like always, leave constructive criticisms and feedback. Review! Thanks and I hope you enjoyed it! :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey guys! I apologise for the late update. This chapter is crappy and completely shit, I literally have 0 vocab and this chap actually makes no sense. Which is why, I need reviews :). They help me improve and inspire me with new ideas, so please, leave a constructive comment before you leave the page! Thanks!**

"Sir, incoming call from director Fury. He claims it's urgent."

Tony muttered barely audible obscenities under his breath.

The image of the Director popped up on the screen in front of them. He had a serious look as he spoke.

"Tony, we need the Avengers ready to go. Now. I'll brief you when you all get on the Quinjet ready for you just outside your tower."

The billionaire stilled at the information, looking like a deer caught in headlights. His eyes were shot wide like saucers, an unreadable expression on his face. Seeing this, Natasha decided to take charge of the situation.

"Director, we will be with you shortly. Friday, notify the rest of the team, including Wanda."

"Yes, agent Romanoff."

Tony felt chills running up his spine and his hands were cold and clammy. The whirlwind raging inside Tony's mind couldn't even begin to be deciphered, but one thing was confirmed - panic and anxiety were dominating his rational thinking.

This will be their first official mission ever since the Avengers have reunited. He wasn't sure if he had the mental capacity to put up with them after running on coffee for over 82 hours during his current insomniac streak. He could project the image of burdening the team due to his sluggish actions, slow-paced brain and reluctance to communicate with his 'teammates', and most importantly, trust - ever the delicate subject, as fragile as a china doll, requiring cautious handling and reinforced security measures. He had already illustrated the outcome of these events and believe him when he said that he did not like what he saw.

"Tony? Time to move."

But what choice did he have, really?

' _Pull yourself together, Stark. Innocent civilians and those vulnerable to this attack need your help. Your baby issues can wait till later.'_

That was what he thought to himself as he strode to the red and gold armor.

Oblivious to the man, 'later' will be stretched out indefinitely.

Why?

Because once again, he will be held captive.

There had been a situation in Massachusetts. More specifically, a terrorist attack at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. The university was recently granted a sizeable donation by none other than Tony Stark. Students then embarked on their journey researching, experimenting and quite possibly, inventing various gadgets that reduced the psychological impact for PTSD survivors, or even completely wipe out related memories should victims consent to such technology being used on themselves.

That device might come quite in handy for the survivors of this attack.

The din of gunfire will forever be etched into their minds; the sight of masked terrorists taking hostages of their friends and schoolmates will be seared into their brains like a hot metal rod pressed into the human flesh; the silvery tiles embellished by little beads and huge splats of blood - the once ordinary ground they walked on millions of times before will be forever tainted by the foul metallic stench and appearance of blood…

All because they wanted Tony.

Once again, these students who the billionaire had never even met - harmless people, were threatened and injured all thanks to Tony.

This was supposed to be a relatively light mission as opposed to battling aliens and ungodly creatures from outer space. Infiltrate the school, remove the terrorists, extract the hostages and thus, put a stop to the attack.

The campus was enormous, so they separated into groups of 2 or 3 in order to increase their efficiency in completing the mission.

Tony had been paired up with the Black Widow and the Captain.

His movements have been remarkably lethargic and he wasn't thinking logically. He was running in blind, occupied by his personal emotional turmoil, and had acted recklessly, waiting for the last and final moment before firing his repulsors at the armed men lurking in the shadows, dressed entirely in black.

Leaving the captain and the assassin to fend for themselves, the metal man had stumbled into the laboratory where the students have been captured, quickly working around their restraints and gags despite his barely conscious and aware state of mind.

Never once had he spoken to his team during the task. Not once.

There were three reasons that extracted this behaviour from him: one, being that the tension was palpable even when they were fighting; two, being that he felt intense hostility and animosity from members of his team; three, being that he did not want to burden the team if he was injured or incapacitated.

Which was why he had not worn his comms.

Which was why he could not reach his teammates when he was injected with a tranquilizer dose high enough to sedate a horse.

Which was why he was now chained to a brick wall by his limbs, the heavy metal rods pulling taut, restricting him to the barest minimum in his movements such that he was practically a human dartboard, his limbs splayed out like a starfish. His suit was removed and smashed into a shape that was painful to the eyes, just like the robot he built when he was 8 - the one that had received courteous compliments from his drunken father - thereby removing any possible connection he could have with the outside world.

Most importantly, there was a huge bucket of iced water that was now placed less than 2 feet in front of him.

He swore he could feel his blood freeze in his bloodstream.

He knew he resented sleep, for the demons that haunted him while he was at such a vulnerable and defenseless stance.

But that didn't mean he liked people knocking him out and then yanking him into awareness once the effects wore off.

There is a distinct difference in the result of those 2: the former would find him awake on his bed, cold sweat drowning his sheets and possibly with the addition of tears streaming from his face like a waterfall. While that is terrible and distressing, its effects seem relatively temporary. The latter, however, would jerk him awake with a brutal kick to the head, leaving him to long hours of heavy and agonizing pounding in his mind until he's once again enveloped in a warm hug by his mattress, exhausted beyond words.

By the looks of it, he wasn't getting a mattress anytime soon. Rotten luck just seems to love him.

The door cranked open in an obnoxiously loud manner, making the man cringe visibly. There was a loud click, and abruptly the room was engulfed in harsh and blinding light, which only contributed to worsening his headache. By now, it seems like an entire band had elected themselves to smash their instruments as loud as they could possible manage to in his head.

A burly man stepped in, a gun strapped to his waist and a taser held tightly in his other hand. A black trench coat and a pair of black leather pants clung tightly onto his frame, the black leather boots managing to marginally heighten his short figure. In short, the guy looked like a pirate dressed in black.

"Captain hook came to town and only I got the invite? Honestly, I am floored and honoured." Tony snarked, somehow finding his outfit exceptionally hilarious and entertaining at the same time.

The man, which Tony aptly dubbed as "Captain Hook" glared pointedly at him, then his face morphed into a malicious smirk.

"Tony Stark. One of the Avengers and a former weapons manufacturer. Ah, and a filthy rich billionaire." Captain Hook drawled, seemingly at a relaxed manner, which greatly unnerved the billionaire.

"Come on kids, this is getting old. If it's money you want, you know that Stark Industries has never negotiated or paid terrorists one penny of ransom, so you can happily cross that off your list. Can't you come up with something more ingenious? Or is that just too laborious for your crew?"

The man did not seem even slightly offended by his jest, rather, grinned even wider that Tony was afraid it would split his face in half.

Captain Hook stepped closer to his victim, then crouched down in order to match Tony at his stunted height. Being forced in that position didn't exactly make him seem tall and authoritative after all.

"You realise that you are at a disadvantaged position, I assume. I'd suggest you quietly oblige with whatever we have you do next so we can avoid all the unnecessary blood and struggle."

His face inched closer and closer with each breath Tony took. His eyes were obsidian, glinting with malignant pleasure; his nose was crooked just as his person was; his mouth has curled up into a menacing sneer. Everything about the man screamed malevolence.

"That depends on what you're here to haggle for, captain hook. Bargaining for more leather of superior quality? What's up with all the leather anyway?"

Captain hook just chuckled in amusement, then settled down, maneuvering himself into an arrangement such that his face was an inch away from the genius.

"Listen closely, I will only say this once. You can write us your programme that is currently managing everything in your massive home or you can tell us who is underneath that ridiculously hideous mask of spider boy, or whatever he calls himself."

The man delivered firmly and gruffly. Tony actually felt the vibrations in his chains when the man spoke.

"How civilised of you to give me a choice. When I get out of this hellhole, I'll be giving you guys a 0.5/5 on expedia. Thank you very much for the kind and generous hospitality. Since you asked nicely, I will actually consider your offer."

Tony propped up his chin and faked being deeply in thought for a moment, face brightening up drastically when he seemed to arrive at his final decision.

"No." He put on a charming smile, buzzing in smugness when he saw the man growl in lividness.

"I had hoped that you were a smart man, Stark. Apparently, I was wrong."

Captain hook stood up, brushed off the imaginary dust on his flaunty leather attire, then gestured wildly to his crew stood neatly behind him.

"Sir, we are receiving an incoming call from an unknown number. He insists that we would want to see it. Should we patch him through?"

Agent Hill queried, tilting her head to look up at the Director from her position.

The rest of the Avengers including Vision, Wanda and Spiderman had assembled behind Fury, concern etched into their faces and their hands fiddling with each other. They marched stiffly and silently as they followed the director, antsy and anxious for their captured teammate. Some even had expressions of guilt and were murmuring inaudible phrases under their breaths. Vision and the 2 assassins were the only members who could remain calm and placid, mentally prepared for analysing any new information and plotting their course to rescue their friend. The rest of the agents were typing away on their computers diligently, trying to work out the location where the terrorists had detained their colleague.

On a huge screen, there displayed the image of Tony Stark, kneeling with his hands cuffed behind his back. Directly in front of him found the tub of ice water. 8 men in black terrorist outfit surrounded him, some grabbing him quite harshly that Natasha was sure they would bruise. The only man that did not wear a mask was Captain Hook whose hand clutched a taser. On the upper left hand corner of the screen, the letters 'LIVE' detailed in white stood out prominently against its red background.

All at once, the entire SHIELD operation quietened. The tense silence hung heavy in the air, a chunk of foreboding evident as if there was an elephant in the room.

"Do it."

Two simple words, a direct command, yet bearing such ferocity. Concise, succinct, yet the team had never feared the 2 syllables so much until that moment.

Immediately, Tony's head was forcefully plunged into the cold water bath, like a donut being dunked into the delectable chocolate sauce. Except this time, the product wasn't some appetizing delicacy.

At the dreadful sight, Natasha's eyes widened comically, the severity and implications of this situation hitting her on full force, knocking the air out of her.

Tony was writhing and tugging at his restraints wildly, his head bobbed up, desperately reaching for a gulp of air, only to be thrust down again.

Natasha did not like that hands that currently covered Tony's ridiculously small frame, ensuring his position and vulnerability. The black gloves hid their flesh away from the eye, far from anybody's scrutinizing glares or judgemental glowers.

Natasha had never liked the colour black.

The primary reason these terrorists chose black on their outfits was because it could hide the crimson color of blood, dripping down slowly as their victims suffered a slow and painful death at their hands. The numerous and limitless secrets obscured within this seemingly innocuous piece of black material was intimidating. Black was the permission to do as one wishes, to roam, to offend the law with such blatant nonchalance that they did not even have to discard said black clothings. They could reuse and recycle all they want, and still, people would deem it as an eccentric sense of fashion, unsuspecting of the horror buried deep within the marred threads. She would know, having experienced it first-hand.

She diverted her attention to observe the rest of the team. They stood rigidly like statues, eyes bearing deep and engrossed at the screen. Steve fisted his hands by his side, loathe ingrained into every part of his being, as if he made a silent promise to throttle all these criminals with his own hands. Peter played with the abrasive fabric in his tight grip, palm blushing a slight shade of red due to the friction created of the rubbing motion. His mouth was agape, aghast. The spy could tell that he was in distress, having to see his mentor being tormented through a screen, completely helpless and powerless to aid Tony's predicament. Bruce seemed to be experiencing trouble suppressing his anger, fingers fidgeting with incense and agitation, a slight hue of green gently coated his figure.

"Let him breathe, dammit! Let him breathe!" Peter yelled weakly in protest, hands gesturing to the terrorist splayed on screen.

As if hearing his outcries, the men yanked Tony's head up, allowing him a moment to catch his breath. Tony's chest was rising and falling at a rapid pace, too quick for Natasha's liking. His eyes were shut tight and she could hear ragged whimpers choking out from his mouth.

"Tell us, or build it. Or else, we'll ensnare one of the Avengers when they plot their heroic rescue and hurt them instead. "

Tony took one more moment to recompose himself, then opened his mouth and spat at Captain Hook's eye. Defiantly, he pronounced,

"No. I am not part of the Avengers, and I never was. I was just the supplier of resources and materials. They won't come for me. Kill me if you want to, but you won't get what you are demanding for. "

Once again, his head was lunged at the water, completely immersed in the icy liquid. Captain Hook stalked towards Tony. A taser gliding dangerously close to Tony's arm, scooting closer and closer with each second until it came into contact with the billionaire.

He squirmed and jerked violently, howling out animalistic growls, body vibrating with shock.

The team flinched at both Tony's statement and his plight.

Tony couldn't honestly believe that he was nothing more than a benefactor right? The man was too narcissistic and self-absorbed, always confident in his strides and snarking pompously.

Except, could he?

How much did they truly know Tony?

That wasn't what concerned the spy the most at this moment.

What deeply perturbed her was how much this was unfolding like Afghanistan.

The incident that Tony still hadn't recovered from despite the many years that had passed.

How long will it take to truly heal this man?

 _How long?_

Then her mouth curled into a sincere smile.

It won't matter how long, because she, along with the rest of the team, will aid him in this rehabilitation process.

The scars will fade, and hopefully, completely disappear.

 **That's it for now. Erm, I really need advice and constructive criticisms to get this going. I hope my abysmal English didn't offend anyone. If you guys have any suggestions on how to improve English writing, please leave it in a review along with the comments. I appreciate the support this story has received so far, and I hope you guys are willing to help me out here. The reviews and suggestions mean a lot! Thanks! :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Uh, sorry for the late update. I keep trying to make this angsty and descriptive, but I just can't do it. I seriously need some tips and suggestions on how to do that. A huge shoutout to everybody we reviewed and thank you very much for the positive comments, I greatly appreciate it. :) Like usual, my English is horrendous and so if this offended anybody, I apologise. Another thing, please remember to leave constructive criticisms on the way out. Content wise, grammar wise and language wise. Thank you!**

The images on screen flickered once again. The team paused their actions in nervous anticipation. They averted their sights to the huge panel splayed atop the conference table.

They were obviously in distress, dark heavy bags pulling their eyes down, hair unkempt and unruly. If the situation wasn't so critical, Tony would have told them that they looked like him when he had insomniac streaks, which was everyday.

This time, Tony was shown lying on what seemed like a steel table, thick metal straps harnessing the genius to the surface, metal cuffs ensuring that even the slightest movements were made impossible. A thick dirty cloth was forcefully stuffed into his mouth, prohibiting any feasibility of Tony pronouncing a single syllable, much less form a coherent sentence. An piece of black material fastened itself on Tony's eyes, rendering Tony completely uncomposed and unable to withstand whatever these criminals had installed for him.

Captain Hook stood next to the metal table. In his grip found a thick rubber hose, connected to a corroded water tap nearby. The man was evidently frustrated with Tony's refusal to comply. His thick brows were closely knitted together, eyes bearing deep and steely into Tony's skull, mouth twitched down in a deep frown of obvious discontent and impatience.

It had been 3 days since Tony was abducted. These terrorists were, apparently, highly skilled in technology as they managed to scramble the GPS signal that should be emitted from the comm even though it was disconnected. The crew was trying everything they could possibly think of. Thus far, they have not been able to achieve anything.

"Tell us who is behind the mask or write us the programme."

Tony shook his head with what minimal movability he was granted.

There was a piercing scream from the rusted metal tap, then all hell broke loose.

The water came spurting in a rapid pace, giving the engineer an illusion of drowning. In just mere seconds, the transparent liquid completely submerged the cloth on Tony's face. Then came the terror-filled gasps, with Tony shaking his head from side to side, coming violently into contact with the harsh and cold metal surface, squirming and writhing with his limited mobility.

Tears started peeking out from the now drenched black cloth, though immediately brushed aside by the pouring water that showed no signs of stopping. The thick material in his mouth was utterly soaked that everytime he tried to take in oxygen, he was instead rewarded with water suffocating him.

Captain Hook had a malignant smirk on his repellant features. The man exuded waves of crazed pleasure that could be detected even through a thin piece of glass.

Vision glided closer and closer to the screen, his hand reaching out and -

 _SMASH_

The once transparent screen alit with blue light now laid shattered all across the floor, causing complete disarray in the originally immaculate room.

"I apologise for my outburst, but I believe we could locate Tony more efficiently if we were not constantly distracted by the footage streaming live."

The team nodded in agreement, quickly resuming their previous positions, working diligently.

Tony lost count of the length of time he was currently being held captive.

He was completely and utterly alone this time. Nobody befriended him, nobody helped him, they all smirked and cackled in maniacal ways.

At least last time, he had Yinsen's support.

To keep track of time, Tony tried various methods: counting the number of times they tortured him, counted the number of times he woke up sore and in pain, counted the number of new bruises and broken bones every time they decided a good beating would teach him his place, counted the number of times he had a panic attack, or flashback.

The number of panic attacks: 13 and counting.

It was pathetic really, the way he portrayed his defiance and pompous arrogance only to reduce to a pile of shuddering mess sobbing on the floor, pounding his head against the cement wall repeatedly. He curled at himself in pitiful endeavor to seem smaller and preserve his body heat that was leaking away, having found a better place to reside in. His skin was pale and pallid, his once wine - coloured lips were now tinted blue - a result of his frequent acquaintance with water.

They blindfolded him. He was constantly in the dark, cordially inviting the darkness to swallow him, chewing and munching until he was torn apart into countless fragile pieces, devouring him from inside-out, only to be processed as waste material, reintroduced in the form of faeces.

He had spent years of collective effort trying to move forward from Afghanistan, but what can you say? An incident that intense tends to leave a huge speckle on your snow-white paper.

That is, if it was that white originally.

Shadows claimed his mind and vultures circled his thoughts incessantly, choking him like the water smothered him.

Telling him how much of a failure he was.

Telling him he was worthless.

Telling him he was weak.

Telling him he was _nothing_.

Nothing but a nuisance to this world. His petty existence created a behemothic burden, dropping it harshly on everybody he came across in his sorry excuse for a life.

He was a threatening hurricane, destroying all civilizations, wreaking havoc, injuring innocent people.

His existence was a hazard, and true to his name, he truly was the Merchant of Death.

People were disgusted by his actions; they actively avoided him, and did not entertain him unless the situation forced or required them to do so.

His team - ah no. The current residents of the tower illustrated that argument perfectly.

He was the stain that could never be removed, the shadows and danger lurking at the corners, but intangible and showed no evidence of its presence other than the paranoia in your head, the drop of impurity added into the crystal clear water.

He actively kneaded with his wit and sarcasm, effectively provoking Captain Hook so they could kill him - an act he had been too much of a coward to commit himself.

It's funny really. While other people craved for life, he yearned for death.

Happiness, that simple word that expressed such a naive sentiment, so pure and innocent, yet a feat so arduous to accomplish. It is surreal, an illusion, a spectre, and most importantly, unrealistic.

He was waiting for his imminent death. He knew that if he wasn't of use to the terrorist group, they would slaughter him, mercilessly. He stared at it lecherously, willing it to come closer, to glide ahead until it accepted him in its warm and welcoming embrace.

He and death have had a few encounters. Each time, they greeted each other, and death would inch closer and closer and closer until Tony could feel its seeping warmth and enticing offers - only to be ripped away at the moment he thought he was finally admitted into the kingdom of blissful joyfulness.

Apparently, even death didn't deem him a worthy candidate to be elected into its kingdom. He wasn't even good enough to apply for an escape, considering his multiple applications, only to rejected over and over again.

Once again, they had tried to persuade him.

Previously, they had waterboarded him in icy water in attempt to coax for his obedience. It had only resulted in multiple flashbacks to Afghanistan, dragging him to relive his memories, his resolve breaking and panicking hysterically, gasping for breath only to swallow mouthfuls of icy liquid. At this point, he was convinced that he was in a theatre, in which his experience was a film that was on air twenty four seven, and that he was stuck in this perpetual loop. He didn't only see water in the tub; he saw his horrid past, he saw himself reliving these recurring incidents, both in his attacks and in reality. Frankly, he did not see a difference in it. Every single time he was plunged down into the unforgiving depths that only held uncertainty, he would struggle for the memories to be kept tightly locked away in the box he had stored them in, fighting to suppress and repress them. Only to fail, like he did in everything, every task, from a miniscule one to a substantial one.

This time, he was restrained on a metal surface. He couldn't see, he couldn't breathe without the sour odour of the old sweaty cloth his captors have stuffed in his mouth insulting him. Needless to say, he did not like it.

They urged curtly for his assistance.

He refused.

This time, he was literally drowning and he couldn't breathe. Air was scarce and it was a mirage.

He had tried shaking fervently from side to side, but all he did was worsen his migraine. The water seemed to seek an effective way in ensnaring his head, making it impossible for him to breathe. He was sinking, and suffocating. A panic attack started tickling his being, jumping and screaming in excitement and exuberance.

They removed the water source. He spluttered and choked.

He didn't acknowledge when they turned the tap, because he had already been pulled under by none other than his thoughts.

He woke up screaming, once again witnessing the death of Yinsen. Those hollow and tired eyes, the peace and blithe expression he had worn when death kindly claimed his soul.

His inability to save him.

His incompetence in intellectual level.

His selfishness.

His failure.

Which only lead him back to his dad's shrieks.

The physical assault. Kicks, punches, slaps, objects being thrown at him, glass piercing his breath. His creation, the inventions, once again being seen as a waste of resources, as did its creator.

He woke up to another of the terrorists' beating. He curled upon himself, head dipped down and hiding underneath his arms.

His ears were buzzing, ringing. He couldn't hear anything. It was as if everything was suddenly put on mute and played in slow motion, every shoe to his ribs and the burst of pain that ensued; every fist to his face and the crimson liquid that trickled down his face.

He looked up, and he didn't see the masks that buried the identities of these criminals.

He looked up, and found Howard. Yelling obscenities and shrieking profanities at him. His alcohol mangled breath, and the glass that broke his skin.

The booming voice instilling in his mind his worth, his dire lack of intelligence, his inability to locate the captain and his failures.

His place in the society.

His mistakes.

Him imploring for his father's praise. Just once, and still he managed to fault in even that.

The mention of the captain only drowned him in a thought spiral of his unwanted presence in the Avengers, his physical incapabilities that hindered the team thus incapacitating innumerable civilians. The weapons that injured thousands of the country's very own Americans, the untold number of lives that had died or been crippled under that hands of his recklessness and irresponsibility. His unawareness of Obadiah Stane double dealing under the table, his arc reactor being ripped out of his chest, the ultimate taste of betrayal…

Trying to appease the Avengers, to seek approval from even one of them despite knowing the inevitability of their departure…

Previously, Obadiah had connived his abduction.

Maybe, the Avengers had orchestrated this one to get rid of the odd member.

In fact, this probably is what this is right? Them disposing of Tony?

He was the unwanted, the burden, the defenseless one… The pretentious prick that did more harm than good…

What had he to go back to?

Nothing.

Nothing that was worth the pain.

Flashbacks, attacks, the looming darkness that consumed him, the boiling paranoia of anxiety, the endless haunting memories that launched relentless attacks every time had managed to nick himself some sleep.

The voice in his mind that taunted and mocked him, whispering scathing remark after scathing remark. It was like Howard had migrated into his head, constantly telling his son off of how he was a disgraceful disappointment.

Everytime he was alone, he showed weakness and cried. He cried of the loneliness, he cried of the pain, he cried of everything.

That was his only outlet.

Then he put up his defense once again, smiling and quipping, as charming as ever.

The critics' incessant questioning of why he couldn't prevent everybody from dying, why he couldn't ensure the world was free of sickness, why he couldn't just be _perfect._

He fought to prove that they were wrong, he fought for their recognition, he fought tooth and nail for their acclaims.

Instead, he just proved them _correct._

In attempt to maintain world peace, he created Ultron, the murderbot who slaughtered civilians and adored the sight of blood and misfortune. He also designed weapons with creative effects, completely ignorant of the destructive ability of his proud inventions, until it was used against him.

People, throwing scowls and snarls at him because he wasn't his father. They didn't see the effort and frankly, they could care less.

Because this is a cruel society, an imperfect world. There is no such thing as empathy and pity. All you get is vitriolic criticisms no matter what you do.

He wanted to turn to somebody, turn to a friend, a companion, a pal, in search of some form of solace. But he looked to find nobody.

He couldn't vent to anybody, because there simply wasn't anybody willing to stick with Tony Stark without the ulterior purpose of earning money or collecting intel and data.

He once thought he had some semblance of a family, a family of misfits. But they showed him that even they were aghast of him. That they were ashamed to be in any correlation with him that they couldn't even stand to be in the same fucking room with him.

Because he was this egotistical, self-absorbed and narcissistic bastard that wasn't the one to make the sacrifice play. Also because he had killed some of their parents due to his stupid weapons he was once such prideful of.

At least they were willing to show their abhorrence upfront.

He could only turn to his memories.

Memories that torment him endlessly, recounting the same stories repeatedly.

His eyes are essentially bloodshot in colour permanently due to his frequent breakdowns. He was so weak, just so weak, so weak it was repugnant.

A car only has so much oil in its tank. When it burns through and the adrenaline fades, what's left is nothing more than a combination of metals and possibly, spray paint to make it look at the very least, presentable, such that people are less incentivized to pry and prod at the contents. The car will be rendered thoroughly useless unless its oil tank is refilled.

Tony does not have this incentive to refuel his car.

He can't do this anymore.

He didn't have anybody. He didn't have anything. He didn't have a purpose.

He couldn't find reason. He was exhausted.

 _Please tell me I did well, Yinsen, Jarvis. Please._

Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't strong.

When everybody left and he was left alo-

Loud, very loud.

Bullets ending up in front of him.

A whirlwind of colours fighting. Grunts and groans from the effort.

Pained shouts.  
Everything was in total chaos.

There was a black metallic object in the shape of a gun that clattered in front of him.

His adrenaline was abruptly multiplied by tenfold and his vision cleared.

He reached for the black object that would grant him his final wish. He stared at it in awe.

He had designed and created multiple different versions of this item.

Different bullets, new technologies, advanced models…

He never got to experiment it on himself.

Perhaps now would be a perfect time to try.

Slowly, he clicked the safety off and placed it to his temple.

 **That's it for now. I really really hope you guys are liking it so far. I'm sorry I failed to make this angsty and descriptive. Constructive criticisms please guys, they really really help me reflect and think of how to improve. If you guys have any input on the content, writing, or just anything really, please review! Please review! Thanks for the support so far, and please review! :)**


	8. Chapter 8

**Guys sorry for the late update. I wrote this in the span of 3 hours so I am hoping so bad that this will at least be half decent. I appreciate the support and everybody leaving reviews. Thank you very much. I am trying very hard to make this angsty, believe me, but I just do not know how and I am sorry if my horrendous English offended anybody. Please guys, I am running out of plot ideas and I am in dire need of constructive criticisms and English writing tips. Please leave a review on your way out.**

 **Here goes next chap...**

Tony relished in the strange comfort the weapon's coolness provided. It was the calm before the storm, one that would ease his inner turmoil. Perpetually.

Tony had had his opportunity to shed his light on this world, or blanket the world in endless suffering, pain and strife. Like Jarvis said, it was time for this old man to leave, to let the younger ones, namely Peter, take on the mantle and excel Tony in every single existing level, outperforming him and become something he will never be able to accomplish.

At that moment, time stopped its brutal magic. Everything paused where they were. For once, something was favouring Tony's side. Too bad this will be the only time such incidents occured.

He revelled in this last moment, strangely peaceful.

He knew leaving this world in such ways were pitiful and weak. But at this point, he was way beyond the line of caring.

He watched a crew he once proudly called his family fight for him. They worked with such rapport, such affinity that he envied them.

He stuck out like a sore thumb.

With this one gunshot, a prolonged din, he would vanish, and his petty existence will be erased permanently. The behemothic burden will be lifted, and peace will be restored once and for all.

He saw who he was now.

He saw what he was never going to be - a hero, a decent living being, something, anything.

For a moment he felt incredibly selfish, because he had taken this liberty of freeing himself from the stones that were tied to his feet. He was supposed to fight and repent for his hideous sins.

But then he remembered, he always brought more harm than good. This was a solid fact. You want proof? There are literally loads, so much that you could fill the oceans that cover 70% of the Earth's surface, so Tony won't list them out here.

He took a final glance at the room, then slowly, almost gracefully, he closed his eyes one last time.

 _Thank you…_

He pressed the small metallic curve that would release the crucial element, sending it straight through his skull. He pressed it harshly, roughly. He knew he pushed it.

But he heard nothing, felt nothing, saw nothing.

A moment later, a blast of pain erupted from his backside. It was like his hand was stuck in some gooey and sticky liquid, nailing both of his hands firmly to the brick wall.

Gingerly, he lifted the heavy closed lids.

His captors were splayed unconscious on the ground, lying in various uncanny positions. Multiple wounds and injuries of a wide variety littered all over their bodies. Had it been a different situation, Tony would have laughed.

So he did.

He didn't know why he chuckled, he just did.

He felt like a mad man. Perhaps it was due to the obvious fact that he was one.

Suddenly, he felt this fiery rage consume him, boiling at the pit of his stomach and building up momentum rapidly, spilling out the second he thought opening that bratty mouth of his was a fantastic idea. His normally chocolate brown eyes were shadowed with an inexplicable darkness, one that came abruptly like a bomb. Like the one he created with the genius idea of inserting shrapnel in it. It was deadly.

"Parker. Let. Me. Go." He gritted out, punctuating each word like snakes spitting venom from their tounges. He was hissing, dangerously, preying eyes glaring down at his team, making some of them flinch imperceptibly.

Peter was frightened, terrified. Never had he seen his mentor in such a state, a wild dog snarling ferociously at him.

"Peter, don't you dare." the Captain ensued Tony's command, kicking the gun far away to the opposite corner of the tiny room. It slid and clattered noisily, taunting and cackling at Tony for his unsuccessful attempt at taking his own life once again.

As quickly as the storm came, it blew past, leaving no trace of its presence.

Tony struggled and fought against his restraints. He was an insect that was caught in a spider's web, battling valiantly against the strong sturdy substance that kept him in place.  
He fought until the salty liquid blurred his vision, he struggled and screamed so painfully until his throat was hoarse and cracked. He slammed himself repeatedly against the brick wall in vain attempt to free himself from the web that captured him. He fought relentlessly, because unlike other conflicts, this was not one he was willing to lose, not one he allowed himself to lose. He had to win, he had to win, he had to -

The clouds gathered quickly, bringing a tint of foreboding, the cotton candy darkening to obsidian black, much like the eyes of Captain Hook. The deafening thunder boomed fervently, the lighting stroke lethally at the painfully dry desert.

The desert, dry and barren, cracked even more so than it already was. All signs of life were obliterated, the sands swirling ominously, forming shape after shape of haunting demons, the stomping giant that further wrecked the shattered ground, all the way down and deep into the dirt and reaching the very core of the Earth…

The rain poured. The ground, grateful for this one gift, cherished it dearly. It drank in all available resources immediately, gulping it down greedily, showing no signs or intention of stopping even as the water started to pool at the crevices.

It formed a little pool, then a pond, then a lake, then a gushing river, then a roaring ocean, coming wave after wave after wave. A tsunami.

"LeT ME GO! LEt ME Go! JUST LET Me GO! GIvE ME THE FuCKiNg GUN YOU ASsHolE GIVE IT TO ME! I WaNnA DIE ALrIGhT I wAnNA FUcKInG DIE JuST LET mE dIE LeT Me DiE LET mE DiE! Is THat WhAT YoU WanT To HEAr? wHY WOn'T YOu LeT mE Die? wHAT MoRE dO YoU WAnT FrOm ME? I'LL lET YoU PulL THE TrIGgeR ALrigHT JUST PLeASE, PLEAse, PLeASE leT Me diE…"

His begging were the only sounds that could be heard throughout the room. The walls were force fields, deflecting and bouncing the sound back and forth the tiny cell, attacking the ears of everyone painfully and recurringly.

Tony thrashed around violently, albeit weakly. He made grabby gestures for the gun with his once again restrained mobility. His honey eyes were empty, hollow, like an dried up well, only to be replaced with months and years of bottled up emotions. Unleashing all at once could prove lethal, especially as a hurricane this intense. The salty liquid ripped open the cages that have confined them for so long, flooding out ardently. His breathing was laboured severely like all those times he had panic attacks.

All at once, the vibranium walls collapsed. The vulnerable man inside was revealed, writhing, screaming, shrieking, clawing…

The team watched him writhe, screech and sob, completely baffled by the genious' behaviour. They stood rooted to the ground, eyes trained at him like sniper rifles. Their heart clenched and ached for the brother they had neglected for so long, the brother they hadn't even bother to truly see, the brother they had left alone, engulfed by the roaring darkness.

" _You might not be a threat Stark but you better stop pretending to be a hero."_

" _Iron man yes, Tony Stark no."_

" _You humans are so petty."_

" _Narcissistic asshole."_

" _Ultron_ _can't tell the_ _difference between_ _saving the world and destroying it, where do you think he gets that_ _?_

Their hearts were ripped out of their chests, squished and squeezed, thrown into a machine where they blended it into juice, and poured it right down their throats.

They pondered of all the times they had wronged him. The effort he had put in giving them his best, showing them his best, working with his best.

The personalised quarters, refilled supplies, necessary facilities built just for them because he had treated them as a _family,_ a group of people he thought he could trust, a group of people he thought he could rely on, a group of people he thought would support his actions like any real family would.

He knew everything about them, he had studied and examined every single one of these members, spending the time just to recognize what they favoured and what they didn't. Their struggles, their battles and how he could be of help.

Never, had they ever even contemplated the idea of reciprocated these actions.

Instead, they had taken it for granted and yelled at him with scathing remarks, left him to carry the weight and burden of their collective mistakes, to clean up all the damn messes.

They had judged him with the standard of being perfect. They had wanted him to be perfect, the perfect team member, the perfect host, the perfect Tony Stark. He was Howard's goddamned son so he just had to be perfect.

And he wasn't.

They could see now how much he tried to become this perfect person they all had in their sick minds, and they knew it wasn't worth it.

Howard had broken his mind.  
Afghanistan had broken his heart.

They had broken his _soul._

The very quality that formed Tony Stark, and they told him to _eliminate_ that factor.

They were the direct cause of this chaos. This mess.

They had inadvertently caused him to arrive to this decision he made today.

A second later and they would have caused his _death._

They were the reason, the basis, the _incentive_ -

That had actively advocated for his extinction.

They added to his guilt piled sky high because that hadn't even bothered to research about this person, this human being on their team.

They repaid his generosity by casting death glares, evading him, and making him feel ostracized.

So much that he felt the need to shut up, so much he felt the need to continue this pursue to become the perfect Tony Stark, the perfect team member, the perfect Avenger, just perfect, perfect, perfect because he had wanted their fucking _approval_.

They gave him the exact opposite.

And they were supposed to be his _family._

Their eyes held pools of tears that mirrored the billionaire's as they watched his defenses debilitate. Slowly, gradually, Tony just stopped moving. He ceased all movements but silent tears that continued to stream down his cheeks, rolling off his chin and hitting the greyish pavement, joining the rest of the salty liquid that have unfortunately ended their short span of life as hastily as they started.

Peter sprinted forward, cut off the webbing, and hugged his mentor.

His mentor seemed to be in a daze, completely unmoving, gaze fixed at the weapon that was supposed to bring him comfort. And even an object without life could betray him.

He wonder how truly pathetic he really was.

The captain was the next to awake from his trance. He silently slipped forward, shaking Tony gently.

Tony averted his stare to the bright blue eyes of the captain. So righteous, always fighting for justice, to maintain peace.

And he had disappointed even his childhood hero. He chortled.

He didn't have anything to live for. Purposeless. Aimless.

What good was he?

"Captain… you were my idol as a child… I guess it's only fitting that you kill me too. Can I ask you for a favour? Can you pick up that gun, point it at me, and blow my brains out? Maybe after you get everyone out of this room? Because my repugnance is contagious, and I don't want you all to be affected by me again… Please? Just one small favour…?"

"Mr Stark -"

"Peter, it was an honour meeting you. You are a bright kid, a smart kid, a… special kid. I'm sorry that I hurt you sometimes, and I want you to know that I never meant any of it. Honest. Keep being who you are, shine bright, and don't ever lose that childish innocence twinkling in your eyes. That spark is a precious one, try your best to keep it alit and don't ever let it flicker. I… want to thank you for bringing your glow into my life… You have this quality that no other superhero has. You better everybody's day just by popping in or chirping a simple greeting. I want you to know that you have my support, that you have my encouragement, and don't ever give up. Thank you, Peter."

Tony stumbled through his speech, turning his head up to face the ceiling.

The captain had retrieved the gun and pointed it at his head, ushering everybody out the little cell door…

Steve shut it, tight.

Peter heard the gunshot loud and clear.

He sank to his knees, and bawled.

 **I sincerely appreciate everybody who have left reviews so far. If you spot any mistakes, please let me know. Please also know that I am trying my very best to write well and angsty and I will really really appreciate any suggestions or tips and most importantly, constructive criticisms. Please leave a review, they are really really helpful. :) Until next time... :)**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hey guys! Sorry I know it's been a long time... The next chapter will be up anywhere from 2 weeks to a month. I'm sorry for the wait, but tests are coming soon and I needa study if I wanna get my mom off my ass.**

 **Thank you for all your support so far, I appreciate all the reviews.**

 **This is a pretty crappy chapter, a really bad one actually, considering I wrote it up within only an hour or something. Do let me know of any grammatical errors or additional content you would like to add. Like always, constructive criticisms are always welcome, as are reviews in general.**

 **I hope you guys like the next chapter...**

It was a sensation akin to floating.

It was peaceful, serene. There weren't any troubles; there weren't any problems. It was just him, and himself, gently surfing through the light air.

Distantly, he spotted a beam of light, shining and reflecting brightly wherever he was. He found himself attracted to it as its appearance began to clear and the distance between began to shorten.

He couldn't help the gasp of surprise when he saw Jarvis standing there. His former butler, one he treated like his very own father, the only person who had verbally assured him that he was loved.

Suddenly, he was this young 8 year old, vibrating with exuberance and insatiable curiosity of the world. He all but leaped into Jarvis' embrace.

He was well aware that he was holding onto an illusion, one that would vapourize into thin air quite soon, but he knew to hold on to those precious moments with what limited time he had.

"I missed you, Jarvis."

The older man smiled kindly, rubbing soothing circles on his back.

"Young sir, I see you have accomplished quite a lot. I am proud of you, Tony."

Jarvis spoke softly, continuing the soothing motion on Tony's backside.

"You are?" Tony queried, ludicrous to the fact that anybody had been proud of his feats.

"Of course, young sir."

They stayed like that for a while, Tony clinging onto his former butler, seeking solace and comfort while the butler dipped his head down, an amiable grin gracing his old features. He had wrinkles splattered all over his face, eyes squinting as if to see something far away, conveying complexed emotions that only Tony could decipher in his chestnut orbs.

The beam of light began to waver, slowly dimming and fading.

"Young sir, you must return now. Your friends are waiting for you."

Jarvis spoke, an hint of sadness underlying his cheerful tone.

"What friends? I don't have any. I don't have anything to live for, not anymore. Don't you think I have achieved enough? Can't you take me with you?"

This wasn't the Tony Jarvis recognized. The irises once coated in enthusiasm and ambition was replaced by exhaustion and guilt.

Young Tony gradually grew back to the current Tony, his features mirroring those of Jarvis', with the addition of sunken cheeks and heavy black bags accentuating his hollow orbs with utter despair.

There was an overwhelming amount of emotions being expressed.

The beam of light shimmered weakly, signalling its final moments, just like the person Jarvis once was.

"Tony. Go back. At least for Peter. You still have to be that guiding ray. Rediscover yourself, and be true to who you are. Hopefully, you will be happier the next time I visit you. Goodbye, young sir. Go home to your friends and family soon."

Jarvis took his leave, figure blending into the weak beam and vanishing along with it.

Tony sighed, drained psychologically. He dreaded the moment this gentleness would plummet him back to reality.

Where he had to put up with the Avengers' questioning, probing and prodding. Where he had to exert additional effort in evading their sympathetic and pitiful gazes. Where he was sure his rights to privacy would be essentially revoked, as if it was an application, because somehow his pessimistic thoughts were a violation of those rights.

More importantly, he would have to re-forge those vibranium walls, such that they would be fortified, take extra caution to ensure his teammates believed in the lies he fabricated and lilted in casual nonchalance.

He had his reasons for his reluctance in returning to the cruel realm they call reality.

He acknowledged the fact that he had no place in this society, that he was a free, automatic vending machine that spits out endless new inventions. He knew he was the equivalent of a murder bot, injuring innocent civilians as he headed down his glorious path of the battle he had created himself.

He dreaded the nights, when darkness took over, painting the skies in black and blue, akin to the thoughts thrumming through his veins in accelerated speed because somehow even his own mind managed to antagonize him.

He was the perfect punching bag, one that would never break or leak no matter the assailant - a super soldier, a demi-god or an enhanced. He never protested, rather, stayed obligated to his duty of providing satisfaction to those who extracted little threads of pleasure through such physical exertion.

At the end of the day, he was just a tool, a tool that had no control over its wielder, subjecting himself to relentless manipulation due to his vulnerability - human emotions. Had he lost the ability to feel, this whole business would never have happened.

He had long lost his skill to determine, judge and process. He accepted what he was told, practically begging for affection and approval from his teammates, those people he treated the closest and held dear to his heart.

He knew the risks, the alarm blaring obnoxiously in his head ever since the day he had met them, warning him not to develop bonds with them as similar to every person Tony had known, they would leave him alone, stranded in a desert in the precise position they had found him, with the gleeful addition of scars, wounds and bruises.

And what would he do then? With nobody to trust and nobody to rely on?

For far too long, he had remained calm, albeit forcefully, optimistic of the next bypasser to be person he could befriend.

He saw the naivety now, crystal clear. That was wishful thinking.

This society is a brutal one. It was kill, or be killed.

So this time, he had decided to take matters into his own hands, to resolve his own issues because he had refused to allow other people to pick up after his messes.

Yet, these people could not fathom that he _needed_ to do this, for the greater good. They had no idea what tremendous relief his perishment would bring.

Simultaneously, they deemed him culpable for simply existing.

What was he supposed to do then? If anybody please enlighten him, he would be delighted.

Waves of trepidation radiated off of him despite his unconscious form.

He relished in his final moments of what little tranquility he could enjoy in this vacuum.

He woke up, or rather, was plowed back into the bitter reality through the steady beeping of a machine, one that had wires and patches placed all over his chest.

He adjusted his eyes to adapt to the unnecessarily bright lights beaming directly above his head, as if they were millimetres away from kissing his cheeks.

In his peripheral, his sight was drawn to the young teenager, head lolled to his side and neck strained, mouth slightly agape with a small stream of drool steadily flowing out, landing softly on his grey shirt, the picture of the original avengers imprinted on the dulled silvery surface. His hazel hair was disheveled, strands sticking out in every direction - an evident product after raking his hands through his hair repeatedly out of nervousness and anxiousness. His arms were crossed on his chest as he breathed out silently, taking precaution in waking the formerly unconscious man.

Tony hated how the youngster managed to walk on eggshells around him as if he were some kind of China doll around him, despite the fact that he had been asleep.

Apparently, Peter was the only person present. The rest of his teammates, or more accurately, acquaintances, remained unreachable.

He had to leave immediately.

As quietly as he could manage, he tugged out the IV drip that offended his veins and turned off the heart monitor that produced the aggravating monotonous beep. Then, he proceeded to disconnect the perturbing patches that stuck to his body.

Slowly, he slipped out from under the duvet, folded it in half, then yanked on the shirt on the bedside table quickly.

Inching towards the door that was his escape, he withheld his breath, cautious to waking up the youngest superhero on the team.

He lifted his hands to the cool metal knob, twisting it tentatively, successfully avoiding the metal screech it normally produced, then stepped out of the door, casting one last glance at the supposedly sleeping boy.

Only to find chocolate eyes staring right back at him, all traces of sleep vanishing into the repellent stench of sanitized hospital air.

The boy acted surprisingly placid and level-headed, for the next thing he knew, a gooey white substance attached itself to his hand and the glinting knob, ensuring no escape.

Tony straightened out his clothes, then fixated Peter with a stern glare.

"Get me out of this thing Parker. I designed web shooters to help improve your efficiency in battle, not to restrain myself."

He spoke lowly, berating Peter for obstructing his departure.

Peter's usual rambling was nowhere to be found. In its place was crude silence.

Tony felt Peter's intense scrutinizing as he ducked his head is guise of irritation and gall.

In truth, he feared staring into Peter's eyes, for he did not want to be confronted with immense disappointment and pathetic sorrow sliding atop those endearing orbs.

Suddenly, he felt the air knocked out of him as a body came pummeling into him, arms wrapped around his back and squeezing him tightly, as if he was afraid that Tony would somehow fade away into nothingness.

He choked, coughing loudly, then attempted to detach himself from the boy but he was a magnet, the strength of the force rivalling gravity's. After a few valiant tries, he gave up, going limp in the young man's arms.

Peter kept his eyes tightly shut, holding onto Tony and clinging onto him as if he was his lifeline. He heard Tony's hacking and felt his arms trying to detangle the two of them, but that just made him embrace his mentor tighter.

He wasn't sure what he felt, whether it was stupendous relief, sympathetic understanding, or inexplicable anger. Maybe it was all of them, maybe it was none of them.

No matter. His mentor was alive and that's all that mattered, for now.  
He had been terrified when Tony made that horrendous goodbye speech. His heart was pounding like Thor's hammer, threatening to break out of his chest. His eyes saw everything played in slow motion multiple times, forcing him to memorize every single detail, from the contorted and pained gaze in his mentor's eyes to the texture of those brick walls. His ears were ringing; everything was noiseless and obstreperous at the same time. His senses were assaulted violently, especially when he was forced out of the room such that the captain could _execute_ his mentor because Tony had asked, _begged_ for it - to be relieved of the burden of living.

Everything after that goddamned gunshot was a blur. He briefly remembered himself running into the hospital and yelling discourteously at the poor reception lady that had been frightened by his aggressiveness. It wasn't entirely his fault, really. He had saw Tony as a father figure, a person he could look up to and ask for advice, a rather prominent figure that had somehow inserted himself into Peter's uneventful life.

He had lost his parents, witnessed Uncle Ben murdered in front of his very eyes at the mere age of 8.

If he had to watch his mentor _kill himself_ , he didn't know what he would do.

So, pardon him if he was oozing agitation, entire body vibrating due to the fact that his mentor, his _father_ , might very well be dead, or so he thought, and that he would never, ever see those hands construct amazing creations and hear that voice admonishing him for being reckless and irrational as he swung around his city, swearing to safeguard these citizens' safety as a vigilante.

He could not describe the tremendous relief he felt when he was informed that Tony had NOT been shot, and was simply unconscious. He had sustained some injuries during his captivity, but they should expect a speedy recovery regarding his physical injuries.

It was the psychological wounds that they feared. The pain that they had caused atop the child abuse that was previously unknown of he had sustained when he was younger. They went so far as to explore whether Tony had ever made a full recovery after the traumatic incidents in Afghanistan and New York.

They weren't wrong that Tony had barely even healed.

For now though, Peter was just content with the fact that Tony was alive.

In the span of 5 days, the others had ushered him to return home multiple times, assuring him that they would contact him whenever they heard new information regarding Tony's situation.

He, of course, had a different thought in mind, being Peter Parker and all. The entire gang proceeded to camp out at the waiting room, occupying all available chairs and running on black coffee.

2 days ago, he had insisted that they return to the Tower and rest, considering their zombie-like appearances. They wouldn't be of much help stationed here anyway. If anything, Peter feared that they would crowd Tony and make him feel uncomfortable and claustrophobic. He didn't want that.

When the others had tried to implement the same system on him, it hadn't worked. Peter had quite the reputation of being stubborn and mullish, mind you. If they wanted clarification or evidence, they could always ask his mentor, the man that was lying unconscious on the very bed in front of them.

Anybody with eyes could see their evident distress through their red-rimmed eyes and dark heavy bags. They almost seemed like Tony when he had his insomniac streaks, which was essentially everyday.

Phasing out of his thoughts, Peter slowly retracted from the warm cuddle. He took a deep breath, conjuring something akin to a steely glower, glaring defiantly at his mentor, then freed him from the sticky substance.

Peter tugged Tony forward harshly, practically throwing him onto the white bed, choosing a spot right next to the genius.

Peter's gaze hardened as he met the lost orbs of the billionaire.

"Talk." He ordered.

For some weird, unknown reason, Tony did just that.

 **I know this is abysmal, but I promise you I am trying. If you guys have any suggested content or the likes, please leave a review. Please also do leave constructive criticisms.**

 **I will be off for about 2-4 weeks. Once again, thank you for reading and sticking through until now. I really hope you guys liked it.**

 **I'm sorry if my horrible English offended anybody.**

 **Please do leave constructive criticisms or random suggestions or prompts even, and I'll think it through and try my best to fit it in. Thanks! :)**


	10. Chapter 10

**Hi guys! I know it's been a long time. I have been busy with midterms and shit in school, and outside of school. It sucked, and I lost motivation for a while. During this month, I dug through many other fanfics about the Avengers or the MCU, then realised how much this fic sucked. Think I might be starting a new fic after I end this one. This fic will probably end in 5 chapters, or less than 5. Like always, excuse my poor English and grammar and the abysmal content. Constructive criticisms are always welcome. Please do not hesitate to leave comments.**

Tony found Peter endearing and adorable, the way he acted and bossed him around as if he was his commanding officer. Had it been under a different circumstance, he would have been rolling on the floor, his stomach convulsing from laughing too hard.

But Peter was completely serious, a grave expression on his face.

Tony was, of course, extremely reluctant, due to reasons such as A) he did not want to burden a child with his personal issues, B) he didn't want his negativity to somehow influence the child that had just embarked the superhero journey and was just beginning to discover it wasn't all sunshine and rainbows and C) he didn't believe he deserved the help.

But again, having been in the limelight considering he was practically born a celebrity, he had long since mastered the art of deception and trickery. His skills were to rival those of Loki's, without the crazy magic and super strength and all that.

So, Tony opened his mouth and spun stories the way he spun them to the press. Natural, and plausible. Half of the time he wasn't even aware of what he was saying. He just said them for the sake of saying them.

He turned horror stories into fairy tales, haunting nightmares into beautiful dreams.

Peter just nodded along, smiling and occasionally, patting his mentor's kneecap as a gesture of encouragement.

When Tony finally finished his recount of 'the tales of Tony Stark', Peter clapped and let out a cheerful cry.

"The truth, Tony. I'm not a child, and it's 'bout time you stop treating me like one."

One sentence, short of any concealment or embellishment. Straightforward, direct, penetrating through all the lies the billionaire had fed the press.

Tony absolutely admired the child's ability and freedom to just spit out what he wanted to. And frankly, Tony was impressed. This boy, albeit only a mere age of what, was it 15? 16? Saw through the mask he hid behind for years, one even the press couldn't begin to decipher.

But again, he couldn't tell Peter the truth.

They say knowing the truth was better than being fed lies, no matter how hideous it might be.  
Tony respectfully disagrees.

Of course it had been Captain and company that barrelled through the door a moment later, because of course.

"Tony! You're...awake!" the Captain exclaimed, relief scrawled all over his features.

"That I am. I applaud you for your astute observation, Captain Rogers. And if you're done coddling me with needles buried deep into my flesh, I would very much like to return to my workshop and my tinkering. This expedition has been fun, folks, but I'm afraid the ennui just won't do my genius brain justice. So, if you'll excuse me, Avengers, I would take my leave now."

He stood up, brushed the invisible dust off his shirt the way he stroke his ego. Striding towards the door in 2 large steps, he reached, once again, for the ridiculously shiny door knob, only to be obstructed, again. This time by the toned physique of the Captain.

"Sure Tony. I'll have you know, though, your permittance to your lab and the bar have been revoked. You're more than welcome to try, I doubt Friday will allow your entrance."

Great.

Just. Fucking. Great.

Now they had forbade him from his goddamn _lab_?! His one and only sanctuary where he could work in _peace_? Do they not understand the significance of his lab?

He felt hands on his chest, pushing him firmly, but gently, backwards, and onto the disgustingly white bed.

"We're not going anywhere Mr Stark, and neither are you." Peter chirped from his side of the bed, twinkling innocence evident in his childish voice.

"You're not alone, not anymore. Please, talk to us, man of iron. Give us a second chance, you are part of the Avengers, part of this team, our brother. We care for your health. You do not have to succumb to your demons." the God boomed, placing his hammer on the chair Peter napped on a while ago.

The chair did not crash under the heavy weight of Mjolnir.

Even a goddamn chair was worthier than Tony Stark.

But of course, why wouldn't it be? How many agitated family members or friends had it served?

How many deaths had Tony Stark caused by his stupid weapons? How many families have been broken just because he was a Stark? How many beings had he erased from existence because his company was double dealing under the table and he remained completely oblivious to this as he was busy partying and having meaningless sex with countless women? He might as well be a terrorist member of the Ten Rings, his body count exceeding and surpassing even those of the volatile gang. And let's not forget the entire Ultron debacle.

 _How much pain had he caused just because he_ **existed** _?_

To his mom? His dad? Jarvis? Rhodey? His bots? The Avengers? Civilians in general? People around him?

He wasn't even an official member of the Avengers remember? Iron man yes, Tony Stark not recommended? He was nothing but a petty consultant. He was _worthless._

He did not deserve life.

He deserved prolonged and excruciating torture for all the lives he had taken out of ignorance.

It was like what Howard had said, he was a worthless piece of shit.

And his colleagues wanted to share the heavy and massive burden on his shoulders that was weighing him down?

Not a chance.

It was not their responsibility.

He had already caused them enough pain and created enough messes for them. They did not deserve this cruel treatment.

"Incorrect, Thor. I am not a member of the Avengers. I am merely a consultant, an inconspicuous character lurking behind the scenes. At least that was what I was supposed to be. But then, you see, my genius decided it would be a great idea to take the liberty of making reckless decisions in the field and creating a murder bot which hurt all of you, just like all the other supervillains did. Supervillains which then went through the criminal justice system and were given a fair and just sentence, atoning for their crimes by rotting in a cell or whatever they were made to do. Me? No, I was not incarcerated just because I was a fucking Stark! So really, big guy, not an Avenger, don't deserve that title either. Just another ordinary, or not so ordinary considering an ordinary being wouldn't have brought mass destruction upon their city, person. Definitely not a superhero. So not your brother, point break, really not."

Tony gesticulated wildly, overcome with a sudden bout of emotion while he raged about during his tirade.

He felt fury, inexplicable wrath, building up inside him.  
For a brief moment, he was bewildered as to why he felt such anger.

Then he realised they were directed at himself.

He let out a mirthless chuckle.

"It's time you all see me as who I am. Tony Stark, a murderer, builder of weapons of mass destruction, the Merchant of Death."

His statement effectively silenced the occupants of the room. They stood silent, whether it was due to acceptance or shock Tony did not know.

He roughly pushed away the Captain's hand on his chest, once again stalking towards the steel door knob glinting a silvery hue under the fluorescent lights of the hospital room.

He saw his reflection, warped and twisted on the small piece of metal.

He had always hated mirrors, glass, generally anything with a reflective surface, because they were always able to tell the truth behind him. The truth that everybody neglected. The undeniable fact that no matter what he did, he would never, ever, be able to repay all his debts and atone for all his sins for they came in such tremendous amounts. The cruel reality that he was never good enough because he just wasn't perfect. He had to be perfect, flawless, unblemished; why wasn't he just perfect? He had tried, couldn't everybody see that he had tried?

A tree was an accurate depiction of his life.

Correction.

More like a cactus in a desert.

Growing in such a barren climate, without sufficient water and nutrients; having to adapt to the turbulent weather - scorching heat during the day, chilling wind during the night, with the gleeful addition of the occasional sandstorm, swirling and conjuring up wave after wave of the yellow particles - isn't it just incredible how such harmless these sand molecules seem, only to be morphed into raging creatures a second later?

They chipped away pieces of him, a small fraction, another small fraction, gradually increasing in size and portion. They never cared for how it faired later on - it wasn't any of their goddamn business.

So the young cactus learned to construct his defenses, however weak they might be. It learned from each assault, adjusting and improving its barriers for the better until eventually, its defenses became impenetrable.

But by then, it started to seem hostile to the courageous travellers that dared to cross the desert. They stayed far, far away from it, avoiding contact and darting away even when they only caught sight of it. They will not hesitate to take the long route if the shortcut meant having to encounter the threatening thorns of the cactus.

No matter what it did, the cactus wasn't perfect.

It never was, and it never would be. Either way, the world was unsatisfied.

The cactus wondered if it was worth the arduous hard work and diligence it took to survive every passing moment.

The cactus decided that it was a coward, and that it feared death, having experienced close confrontations with it before.

He felt warm hands steer him away from the exit, once again ushering him in the room.

"Tony, we are sorry."

Huh?

Sorry for what?

"I am sorry, at least. For wronging you so severely, for always expecting Howard in you, for being inconsiderate. I never once thought to consider things from your perspective, and just berated you time after time. Please, forgive me." The Captain spoke in a barely audible volume. If it wasn't for the pin-drop silence, Tony would have missed it.

The Captain lifted his head to stare straight into Tony's eyes. Tony averted his gaze because he couldn't bear the intensity of the stare as well as the streams of salty tears trickling down his face.

The Captain looked… guilty. For what Tony didn't understand. He couldn't even begin to fathom why the Captain would apologise to a sorry excuse of a life like him.

"What are you apologising for? You didn't do anything wrong. I know you're all for morals and goodwill and justice, but nothing here fits the bill. Chill out Capsicle. Still, I would highly appreciate you unlocking my lab, considering it is _my_ tower and _my_ lab after all."

"You just don't get it do you?"

Dr Banner spoke calmly, alerting Tony of his presence. He was too serious for Tony's liking, his brows dipping deeply, forcing a noticeable crease on his forehead. His soft chestnut eyes conveyed annoyance and frustration, to whom Tony did not know, but was pretty certain they were directed towards him.

"Your thinking that you are not a part of this team is already fundamentally wrong, and there is only us to blame for your misguided belief. The countless times we berated you, yelled at you with scathing remarks with complete disregard of how you might feel. Our neglect and avoidance of even encountering you despite living in your tower and spending your funds. For everything we have done that might have upset you, yet took no notice because we could not be bothered to, we apologise."

Tony was taken aback by the speech the doctor just gave. Gradually, he let the words sink in.

Never in his life had he been given that much wanted attention that radiated with concern and genuinity. The words implied behind those heavy sentences the doctor spoke with contrition made Tony doubt repeatedly whether or not what he said was the truth.

Tony started laughing. A legitimate, loud guffaw.

He looked hysterical, and delirious, but believe me when I said he was thinking with perfect clarity.

The Avengers stared at him, bemused. They looked at each other, then turned their gazes back to Tony.

"To...ny?" Natasha prodded gently, trying to coax a reaction other than maniacal laughter out of the genius.

"You cannot possibly think that I believe you, right? Though I have to admit, your deceptive skills have improved miles. Congrats! Now if you don't mind, I have an armor to fix and weapons to upgrade… Thanks for at least taking the effort to pretend that you care though. Adios!"

With that, the genius stalked out of the room, this time unimpeded. A cab was called, with the rest of the team watching in stunned silence from the window of his hospital room as the yellow car pulled away from the driveway.

They just stood there like fools, staring at each other as if a solution would magically appear right in front of them.

Sure the Avengers might be superheroes that fight and blast their way through battles, but when it came to psychological wounds that left gaping holes in people, ones that were secreting pus due to improper attendance, they were left utterly helpless.

Especially when it occurred to one of their own, and when they had been the ones to inflict multiple lacerations on their own comrade.

Was it too late?

 **That's it for this chapter. Please rate this story/chapter out of 10, and leave constructive criticisms so I can produce works with higher quality in the future. I sincerely apologise if this abysmal writing offended anybody at all. Don't know when next chapter will be up, but maybe in 2 or 3 weeks. Currently running out of ideas, so I will appreciate any suggested content or anything you want me to write about/ write in the next chapter. Thanks for reading!**


	11. Chapter 11

Hey guys! So I'm temporarily back from this long hiatus. This chapter, as usual, is written with horrible English, so constructive criticism, or anything, really, are most welcome.

Tony haphazardly threw on a pair of worn out jeans and a black cotton shirt that allowed the faint blue light of his reactor to filter through slightly. He trotted down to his lab, relishing in the familiar setting and workspace where he could indulge in his work, drowning out all his sorrows and miseries until he finally collapsed, and would subsequently wake up with a laboured breath and tears streaming down his face if he was lucky, screaming and sobbing if he was not. He would pick up where he had left his task before clumsily falling asleep, and continue on until sleep threatened to rob his mind once again.

Tony had a wrench in his hand, screwing the bolts on his newest iron man model when the Captain knocked on his glass door, holding a cheeseburger and a cup of coffee. He gestured for Friday to let the Captain in.

"Hello, Captain. How may I help you?" Tony casually asked, his sight not once leaving the work that occupied his hands.

"Tony, I brought you some food. Considering that you checked out of the medical room AMA, I think you should not stress yourself that much and you shouldn't spread yourself thin. It's not healthy, you know."

"I've been doing this for years, Cap. Alone. I think I can manage." Tony drawled, secretly thankful for the coffee as his eyelids are beginning to feel just a tad heavy.

The Captain looked at the mechanic, and stared into him. God, the things he would do just so he could kill Howard with his bare hands. No child deserves to be treated so horribly, especially not Tony - the man who gave everything his all, silently working and slaving away to ensure the safety and protection of his dearest teammates; the man who was so kind-hearted, yet had to construct a facade of snark and wit to hide behind because he had been betrayed countless times; the man who had held a gun to his temple, begging everyone to let him kill himself because he had lost faith in this world…

The Captain reaffirmed that Tony did not deserve this.

The problem was, that Tony had other ideas in mind.

"Earth to Steve Rogers?"

A waving hand entered his vision, pulling him out of his train of thought.

"Come join us for dinner, Tony? Please? The team wants to apologise formally…?"

The Captain pleaded, putting on his best puppy eyes look, hoping that Tony would accept the offer. He knew the chances of this happening was less than slim, but a man can hope, can't he?

"Sure, sure they want to… apologise? What for?"

Tony genuinely looked bewildered, eyebrows lifting up in confusion.

The captain was too nonplussed to act. Sighing heavily, he pulled out another chair next to the mechanic and sat down. He sighed again, opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and sighed once more.

"Tony, please just come to dinner. I know you don't think the team did anything wrong, but… please, just come to dinner?"

Tony's tinkering faltered. He lifted his goggles and stared into the Captain's eyes.

"No, Capsicle. Unlike you people, I actually have work to do. Got a company to run, suits to fix, events to attend… the list goes on and on and on. Just leave me alone like you all used to. I thank you for the burger, and the coffee. Now, take your frozen ass and leave. I have deadlines to meet."

Tony took a huge bite from the cheeseburger, revelling in the delicious taste that swamped his taste buds, then downed the scalding hot coffee in a single gulp, before resuming his work, tuning out all the unnecessary noises like the Captain's incessant lecturing and whatever else he was saying. Damn it, can't this man just take a hint?!

Steve sighed deeply, then stood up and left the room silently.

Perhaps that Parker kid would have better luck.

Peter was in the middle of his chemistry class when he felt his phone ring and "Unknown Caller ID" flashing obnoxiously on his phone screen. Tentatively, he excused himself from class and dashed to the washroom to accept the call.

"Hello?"

"Is this Peter Parker?"

"Captain Rogers?" Peter inquired, surprised.

"Yeah. Kid, I, well we, need you to do us a favour. Can you come by the tower now and ask Tony to come have dinner with us? We want to talk to him, but he won't let us." the Captain intoned.

"So you're saying you want me to fix the mess you all created." Peter drawled, unfazed. It is their mess, therefore it's their responsibility to fix it, not his.

On the other hand, helping them with this might actually help Tony. Peter might be a kid, but he was definitely not dumb. He could see through his mentor's facade of happiness since the first time they met. If he could help him get reacquainted with his old friends, perhaps he would be less lonely, and he would not be stuck in endless torment that is his own head that constantly plays out unspeakable horrors in black and white film.

"Kid? You still there?"

"Yes. I'm swinging over, but just to be clear, I'm doing this just for Mr Stark, not for either of you."

"Thank you, Peter. We really do need the help."

Tony was upgrading Clint's arrows and Natasha's suit (why, he didn't know.) when he felt a presence behind him. Immediately, he tensed, holding a pen in his hand, ready to jam it in his attacker's carotid artery.

Or maybe, he should let this attacker kill him. Wipe his meaningless existence off the face of this Earth. Perhaps then he could finally burn in hell without his ridiculously obnoxious teammates trying to stop him.

"Mr Stark?"

So it was Peter.

"Underoos, not that I'm not glad to see you, but aren't you supposed to be at school?"

"Yeah, but, well, school is boring, and I already know everything that's taught in class anyway. So, I thought, I could swing by and watch you work and learn something so I can tinker with my own suit-"

"It was Rogers, wasn't it?"

Peter fell silent from his aimless ramble, shuffling awkwardly on his feet.

"Yeah. The team just wants to invite you to dinner, nothing fancy. Would you please go?"

Tony let out a heavy sigh.

"Look, underoos. I honestly do not have the time for this 'dinner' everyone keeps nagging me to go to. Lots of things to do. Did you think Stark tower remains standing because I had a dinner with anyone that requested an audience with me?" Tony stated monotonously, hands swiping over the designs for Natasha's suit. Perhaps a laser gun there would be a useful addition…?

"Can I at least stay and watch you work, Mr Stark?"

Tony thought for a while. Peter already knew everything anyway, what's the point of hiding himself from this child, whose innocence he so selfishly tainted?

"Fine. Just don't, uh, destroy things. That'll be cool."

Comforting silence surrounded the room for a while. Peter watched, amazed, as usual, as the mechanic tinkered here and there. Peter's presence was unexpectedly helpful. It pushes Tony to a state of extreme awareness, clearing his head and making him work more efficiently.

"Mr Stark, I know what Captain Rogers did was unforgivable, but-"

"Look, Parker. If I thought I had needed a therapist, don't you think I would have gotten myself one by now? If you're here to coax me into rambling about what's on my mind, then leave." Tony bit out harshly. He didn't need people constantly trying to pry open his mind that is a giant database with an enforced lock only he could open, then try to get him to talk about his pathetic feelings. He didn't have the time for that, and he didn't need people trying to decipher what he's thinking, or his depression, or his self loathing, or his insecurities. He had already inflicted enough hurt, anger and trouble on this world, he didn't need to do more of that. The residents of the Stark tower needed to stop trying. He's not worth their time.

"Sorry, Mr Stark. I'll just, watch, from this bench over here, then. If you need anything, just holler. I'll be happy to help out, if I can."

So Peter observed silently.  
What he saw wasn't the physics and coding behind constructing that sick laser gun Mr Stark had just thought of, and it wasn't how the mechanic cautiously hammered the pieces together to form the product. What he saw wasn't even a man.

He saw a piece of a shattered picture, a fragment of who Tony used to be. He saw a figure burdened by the past - something nobody can change. He saw a pile of meat and bones drowning in something nobody can identify. He saw weariness, exhaustion, resignation.

Briefly, he wondered how such a bright, brilliant and intelligent person could have such an arduous past. He wondered how nobody could see through his defences, how nobody could see how utterly alone he was. His mentor had gotten so used to working alone that he resisted anybody's help.

He pondered how a team of elite agents couldn't see how hard it was for this person to lend them even a little shard of his trust, how they couldn't care for the man that was stuck under the debris his own family members had left behind, how they could just take his care for granted despite the horrific backgrounds they themselves had.

He pulled out his cell, then texted the Captain.

He knew he was just a kid in the team's eyes. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage.

Tony wasn't sure how long he had been working in his workshop when suddenly, a box of pizza dropped down from the ceiling.

Make that 10 boxes.

Damn it. Barton.

"Stark. Time to eat. You've been working nonstop since… 5 in the morning. It's currently 9pm. You need to eat."

"Birdbrain, need I constantly remind you I've been doing this alone for years. I can manage."

The door to his workshop slid open.

The Avengers, which he was not part of, strolled in.

"Man of Iron, you need to eat. This isn't healthy. You won't have enough energy to continue with what you're working on." Thor declared loudly.

"Is that it? You want me to eat so I can make you better gear? So I can work quicker and produce your toys by the snap of your fingers?" Tony spat indignantly. Not only wouldn't they leave him alone, they treated him like their personal manufacturer.

What's more, whatever he's producing wasn't good enough for them. His manufacturing speed wasn't quick enough. His designs weren't new enough. Once again, they spat his failure straight in his face.

He was never going to be good enough for them.

Memories of his dad's abuse flashed across his mind in super speed. He was. Never. Going. To. Be. Enough.

Simply because he was Tony Stark, the incompetent, narcissistic, good-for-nothing failure everybody hated.

He curled upon himself and bowed his head further down, continuing to work on Natasha's laser gun solemnly.

He needed to push away his feelings. They would only impede his progress, which wasn't something he needed to add to his ever-growing list of failures.

He wondered whether any more of his old weapons had killed any innocent people in some corner of the world today. He added their deaths to his list of failures.

"What? No, Tony, we just want you to be healthy."

Tony, head bowed, continued to work on silently, electing to ignore the team's presence.

"Mr Stark, please. It's pepperoni pizza, you can't possibly dislike pepperoni pizza, it's a crime against humanity."

"Cap here also got pineapple on pizza. Who even eats pineapple on pizza? That's ridiculous, isn't it, Tony? I know you hate pineapple on pizza."

Nothing.

The only sound that filled the room was the mechanic putting the laser gun together. Soundlessly, he handed Natasha her newest toy, then turned around and started constructing Clint's newest arrows.

Ever the kind doctor, Bruce strolled over and put his hands on the mechanic's arms. The mechanic tensed and flinched slightly under the doctor's hand.

"Tony, please, eat."

"No, I don't have time." the mechanic replied soulessly, staring intently at his designs.

"Tony, that can wait. You need to eat first." the doctor tried.

"No, I don't. If you guys say that I work slow, why are you trying to slow me down even more? Leave me alone. If you want to eat, eat. Don't waste my time."

With that, Tony continued to work on Clint's arrows, deciding to add concentrated acid and a computer virus.

Once again, the Avengers had failed Tony Stark.

So that's it for now. Please, do leave reviews, especially constructive criticism, as well as prompts. Thanks, and have a Christmas!


	12. Chapter 12

Hi guys! It's been a while. I promise the fic will wrap up during the summer. This chapter is a short one, and has a level of English that is not great. So please excuse the grammatical errors or wrong phrasings or general trashy English and review and leave constructive criticisms, or even any plot ideas! Thank you very much!

Some days later, Tony's coffee machine in his lab ran out of coffee. He could get Friday to order take out for him from Starbucks, but the coffee would be cold by the time it arrived. Left with no other choice, Tony traipsed to the common room to make his coffee.

By this time, Tony had already been running on coffee for 60 hours non-stop trying to update all the Avengers' gear. He had already finished working on Clint's arrows and waterproofing underoo's spider suit (that one took particularly long due to the renewed memories of being waterboarded) and had just started working on upgrading Steve's suit to make it more elastic and include more functions like a cooling system, all that spandex must be suffocating.

The Avengers had buggered off to different places in the Tower. At least, he assumed they did. They had, thankfully, left him alone after the pizza debacle, or maybe they didn't but he tuned their nonsensical drivel out save for the stubborn, persistent protege of his. The kid had decided to stay over at the tower for a few nights, claiming to want to "learn new stuff by watching Mr Stark work" when actually reporting to the Avengers about his daily activities, health status and mental stability. Why they thought they needed the kid to do that when Friday was capable of doing the exact same thing more accurately and efficiently sure eluded him.

Well, it's not like they actually cared anyway. If they wanted to keep the act up, pretend to be all considerate and pity him, it's his job to humour them.

He was sipping his coffee, delighting in the warmth it was providing him when he suddenly heard a voice behind him.

"Tony."

The captain had always had impeccable timing, or in this case, inappropriate timing. Can't a man enjoy his coffee in solitude? Is it truly that much to ask for?

But then, considering who he is, it probably is too much to ask for.

Pushing the wooden chair forward and standing up slowly, Tony downed the scalding hot coffee in one go, then turned around and put on his trademark smirk. He stood up straight, back pulled taut, in an attempt to demonstrate some sort of confidence despite how weary he was, because Stark men are made of iron, which means they had to be hard and strong. They had to be perfect, they had to be infallible, lest someone spotted even the most infinitesimal error they could exploit and destroy the Stark legacy.

Tony had enough failures on his list, he did not need to add another major one on his already ever-growing list of failures as Iron Man, as Tony Stark, as a normal human being.

"Captain. What can I do for you?"

The Captain visibly blanched at the sight of Tony's face. There were dark, prominent and heavy bags underneath his eyes, his hazel eyes were bloodshot and… terrifyingly hollow. His face was gaunt and sallow, indicating malnutrition. His hair was greasy, and there were grease marks all over his face and tank top.

More horrifyingly, the Captain could count Tony's ribs despite the tank top he was wearing. He could even count Tony's breathing rate because each breath he took elicited a reaction from his too-thin body. How long has this man locked himself in his workshop? Had he even had anything to eat or drink other than coffee since their unsuccessful pizza intervention?

"Friday, how long has it been since Tony last slept?" the Captain asked, tone laced with worry.

"That is none of your business, Captain I'm-pretending-to-care-about-you, like I've told you over and over again, I can handle myself perfectly well-"

Abruptly, Tony's vision went hazy and unclear, like there was a thick layer of fog over his eyes. He couldn't see properly, so he grappled around to get a hold on something to hold himself up. He ended up stumbling over one of the legs of the wooden chair, hands smashing onto the marble countertop to prevent his head from smashing onto the hard surface. Black dots encroached on his vision, and suddenly he felt a bit dizzy. The marble surface felt really cool, and he just really wanted to sit there and take a short break, nothing long to impede the upgrades he was working on. Just, maybe a five minute shut-eye, nothing major. It's not that he didn't want to rest for longer, it was that A) if he slept for any longer, chances are he would be shocked back into reality through a flashback, or a nightmare, which would leave himself even more vulnerable than he already is, giving people the opportunity to exploit him, and Stark men had to be strong, they cannot afford to show weakness or else his list of failures would keep increasing at a quicker rate than it already was and _please,_ he just wanted to stop being a failure for a moment, and B) the time he spent resting combined with the flashbacks and the nightmares would have wasted a lot of his precious time, which can be used to upgrade gears, write new codes, sign papers, think of better inventions etc etc.

"Sir last slept for two hours 60 hours ago, and he last ate an energy bar fifteen hours ago."

Normally, Tony Stark would protest because his very own creation was voluntarily giving up information that could very well be used against him. But he was just too tired to be indignant that he only heard half of what Friday said. With immense effort, he hauled himself up back to resume his standing posture, frame pulled up and back taut. His vision was still swimming a little bit, but it cleared up soon enough. The coffee has probably kicked in.

"Perhaps the ice degraded your hearing, Rogers. Answer my question and stop wasting my precious time. What can I do for you?" he asked again, annoyance and irritation seeping into his tone, along with bone-deep weariness, and even a tint of fear. He whipped up his phone from his jeans - if Rogers was going to waste his time by lecturing him about whatever the hell captain righteous wanted to bullshit about, he might as well do something that might be productive.

"Sleep. Eat. Rest. Talk to us. Stop hiding down in your workshop." the Captain said, like it was obvious that was what he should be doing.

"Cap, we have been over this so many times. So I will say this only one more time so your slow functioning brain can catch up. I. Am. Busy. I have things better than sleeping to do, alright. What I do, is NONE of your fucking business, so leave me be like you always have." he intoned monotonously, tapping on his starkphone with his head down and striding to the elevators. He was wasting his energy repeating the same thing over and over and over again. Next time, he was going to get Friday to simply repeat this in audio so less time can be spent on this and more time on tasks he really needed to get going with. Problems aren't going to solve themselves, and he really needed to get back to them.

Apparently, even the goddamn AI he coded had opinions, which are very much not needed, on the way he took care of himself.

"Sir. I will not allow you to leave this floor unless you listen to Captain Rogers. He is right. What you're doing - your self destructive behaviours, are not conducive to your health, which is my first priority. Please listen to Captain Rogers."

If you listened very carefully, you would be able to hear a small hint of desperation in the AI's voice.

Tony, not finding energy in himself to argue with both his AI and the Captain, simply sauntered back to the marble surface, still tapping on his phone. If his AI wasn't going to let him leave, he could still be productive by working on his phone, because he really, really needed to get work done. His to do list isn't going to shorten itself magically.

Suddenly, the phone was plucked away from his hands, and he was tapping on air.

"Give my phone back, Rogers. You cannot control or dictate my actions, alright. I am sorry I am not your puppet, and I don't do everything perfectly like I'm supposed to, and I am sorry that I don't act perfectly in your eyes like I'm supposed to. I am working on it, Rogers. But you need to let me get back to work so I can spend more time figuring out why I am such a burden and why I am not perfect and how to _fix_ that. You are hindering the process and wasting my time. Now phone."

"Tony… I am not trying to control you, and you are not a burden. There's nothing about you that you need to fix, and whatever you are doing can wait because you are very clearly on the brink of collapsing due to exhaustion. You need to sleep."

Sleep, the man said, sleep! Like it was fucking easy. And who's to say he won't attack him when he is sleeping, or kill him -

Oh, wait. That was what he was trying to do, wasn't it? To rid the world of his unbearable presence and failures?

Well, who was Tony to stand in his way? Nobody, that was who.

So he strode over to the bar, picked up a bottle of unopened gin, opened it, then downed the entire bottle in one go. Even in death, Tony Stark was a coward and a pathetic failure. He couldn't face the physical pain, so he used alcohol, his only friend that has always been there for him, to numb his body so he could be in a state of unawareness. He chugged and chugged. Suddenly, the bottle was tugged away from him.

But he hadn't had enough, had barely enough alcohol to numb his mind, body and soul. And he might be a huge fucking failure but he wasn't stupid enough to fight the Captain for his bottle of booze. So he stumbled clumsily to the other side of the bar, opened another bottle of booze, at which point he honestly didn't care what it was so long as it could numb him. It could be laced with cyanide for all he cared, and he would still happily chug it all down if it meant putting the world out of its misery by ending his pathetic life.

His fingers worked on muscle memory for having done this too many times, deftly twisting the lid open and proceeding to chug its contents down. This time, he made sure he was facing the corner of the room before chugging to prevent the captain from taking the bottle from him again.

His brain grew a bit fuzzier as the gin worked on his brain and his throat burned and burned from the alcohol he was drinking. Briefly, he was aware that he was downing something that was transparent in colour - vodka! That was the name of the alcohol!

He wasn't sure how long it was when that bottle was snatched from his mouth and hands again. He tried to search for another bottle, but his hands reached out and touched nothing. Now that was weird - he was quite sure there were a lot of bottles there just seconds ago. Where did they all go?

He hasn't reached that ideal state of unawareness yet, where everything fades away, perhaps imitating the way his existence and failures fade away from this world, but it will have to do. He deserved to feel the pain anyway.

Hands. Warm hands were on his shoulders, guiding him to… perhaps back to the marble surface where there are knives? But suddenly his body hit something soft and smelling of leather - a couch. A couch? That was confusing. Killing people on couches are never practical because the bloodstains are an absolute pain in the ass.

"You're… n-not g-gonna, ksh, kill me?" he mumbled, his lips barely moving.

"Kill you? Wh- Tony. No, I just want you to sleep and rest, alright. I'm putting you on the couch for a moment, so I can adjust my position and carry you to the medical floor. You drank too much, Tony. Wayyyy too much for your own good. And when you wake up, all of us need to talk, whether you like it or not. Tony, stay awake, Tony?

He must have faded out at that point, because everything was fuzzy and blurry and he couldn't see properly, couldn't hear properly, couldn't even _think_ properly. He was just really, really _tired_ , and _exhausted_. The familiar blackness threatened his consciousness and he gladly succumbed to it, willingly accepting his death.

Something must have gone wrong though, because when he woke up, there were IV lines attached to him. Hospital then, again. And when he tried to get out, he couldn't.

And when he picked up his file by the foot of the bed, it said

" _Suicide watch"_


End file.
